Dark Side of the Moon
by AlyshebaFan1
Summary: Murdock's bad behavior leads to a major change in his life.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR**: AlyshebaFan

**SUBJECT**: Murdock/OC

**RATING**: G (some language)

I was a fan of the show as a kid, and rediscovered the series after the movie came out. Even then, I liked Murdock best. Hopefully, I got the character right. I've set this story (possibly a series, though posting will take time, as I'm extremely busy with Real Life) at roughly the end of season four.

"Do I make you nervous?"

"No, of course not."

Murdock sat back in his chair, studying the new psychiatrist. The VA could pick them, he had to admit. This one was pretty – auburn hair, green eyes, pale, soft-looking skin, and best of all (at least to his own preferences), she had nice legs. Long and slim. He was a leg man. Always had been.

He yawned and pretended to be bored, but his agile mind was already forming a clever little plan. "I mean, people often expect Viet Nam vets to suddenly _snap_, you know? An unfortunate stereotype, really, but it's there. They think we'll end up on a roof with a deer rifle, pickin' people off. Highjack a busload of kids and drive off a pier, Clint Eastwood in hot pursuit…something like that."

"I don't think that at all, Captain Murdock." She made a note in on her yellow pad, her tongue sticking out a little as she wrote. Interesting, he thought. He watched her hands, and allowed a silence to fall between them. She had long, slim fingers. Did she play the piano? There were inkstains on the tips of her fingers, he noted. A writer? Hm. She caught him studying her, and her green eyes leveled with his brown eyes. He gave her a polite smile and she pinked a little and went back to her writing. Her eyes were the color of high-quality jade.

He tried to read her notes upside down, but she had the handwriting of a serial killer – it was probably even more illegible right side up. Why did doctors have such awful hand-writing, he wondered. Was it something they were taught in medical school?

He stopped trying to read her chicken scratch and sat back again, looking up at the disconcerting fluorescent light above, and began running through his plan with meticulous care.

Timing, he knew, was everything. Let her get good and wound up, what with her definitely, absolutely not thinking vets could snap and all, and then… He exhaled slowly, feeling almost predatory. Not that he was going to hurt her. Just give her a nice little cardiovascular workout, get the blood pumping. He could still do that to Face sometimes, in fact. Give him that false sense of security and then lower the proverbial boom. So far, though, he hadn't been able to actually make Face wet his pants. Only time he'd been able to make somebody do that was when he was being awarded the Silver Star – that General, last he heard, still had a facial tic that plagued him to this day.

Her name was Bridget Monroe. New to the VA system, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, ready to take on the world and make everything right, cure all his ills – she was full of ideals that the real world knew full well would never come to be. Why do people keep doing that to themselves, he thought. Things don't change. Been this way since Adam and Eve got kicked out of the Garden.

Murdock kept waiting. He wanted her…

He frowned. Poor choice of words. Face does all the wanting, and the getting, too. Murdock rarely _got_. He certainly never took. Not here in the psych ward. Most of the nurses looked like Nurse Ratchett or (as proven by his accidentally walking into the wrong room one night) like a bloodhound in a shower cap, except for the young ones, who were way too young for him to even look at. He was no pervert, nor did he rob cradles. He liked women, though. Always had liked them, and he hadn't exactly had that much trouble attracting a few, though he was extremely picky. A couple had even liked him. But he still preferred to get to know a woman before he took it anywhere else, and since this one was his new psychiatrist, he determinedly put that thought away, taking up space in that little box in his head, with his loneliness.

Yeah, so you're lonely. He eyed her coldly, and she stared back at him, pursing her lips nervously. Who wouldn't be lonely in a nuthouse? And when you're lonely and your mind works too fast, you have to find ways of amusing yourself. One day, he would pretend to be General Pershing, chasing Poncho Villa across Mexico. Next, he could try out a new language – lately, he had been using Farsi on the staff, which had sent them running for the happy juice. It wasn't they're fault they didn't speak Farsi. His grasp of the language was still a bit sketchy, but he knew he was getting there. He had asked Face to get him a book on the Farsi language, and some tapes. He liked to the get to the point where he could at least order off a menu and get punched in the face in a bar, in a new language, before he went whole hog on learning it.

Loneliness, he knew, could drive a man crazy. Sometimes he wondered if he had been crazy when he'd come here, or if he was going crazy from being here. Either way, sometimes it kind of got on his nerves. Even made him angry. He had destroyed three pillow last week, punching them. Dr. Richter would have said that he was becoming frustrated. Well, duh, Murdoch thought.

Murdock pushed any bitterness away and put himself back on the correct flight path. He had agreed to stay here, hadn't he? And it was a pretty cushy living, too. No rent to pay, TV, video games…and if necessary, drugs or a nice padded room when he needed some sleep.

He studied her carefully. She was obviously inexperienced. Was this her first diagnostic psych interview? Surely not. Surely she's had some practice at this before they put her in here with _him_. He glanced at the door, and thought about her superiors upstairs. Not even they would just throw her in here, amongst the truly wild sharks? Her gaze followed his to the door, but when she looked at him again, he only gave her a polite smile again. Don't scare her. Make her think you're harmless. It's not time.

Timing. He counted backwards slowly, from twenty. Plenty of time.

Dr Monroe finally crossed her knees and leaned back in the chair, and he saw her shift and wince a little. Uncomfortable. Tall. She was almost eye level with him. He knew the feeling of never being really comfortable when he sat down. Six feet three inches – it's hard to find a way to sit in a metal chair that didn't make your ass hurt. Hell, it was hard to find a comfortable spot on a sofa. Heaven forbid you try to sleep on one, with your feet dangling off one end and no place to put one arm. You wake up with a crick in your neck that'd kill a giraffe and tingling feet, with your hand asleep. He had screamed and yelled about his bed long enough, when he'd first come to this place, that they had given him a specially fitted one, to suit his height. Just to shut him up. He controlled his expression, not smiling at the memory of how he'd gotten all those trash bags in order to escape from that jail in….where was that again?

She was making more notes on her pad. Murdock surmised that she was getting wound up good and tight now. He felt himself tensing, too, like a good racehorse in the starting gate, ready to run, eager for the bell and the thrill of trouncing the competition. He beat off a smile.

Four…three…two…one… "Boo!"

Her reaction was spectacular. She gave a little high-pitched little "Eep!" Her pen flew in the air, as she fell backward, her yellow pad flying behind her. She then gave a shriek of sheer terror, followed by a yelp of pain when she landed – _hard _– on the linoleum floor. Murdock's amusement was very short-lived. He had _hurt _her! That had not been part of his plan at all.

"Damn!" He was at her side immediately, helping her up and checking her over quickly for injuries. "Did you hit your head?"

"I don't know…ow…oh, God…" Her skirt was bunched up to her middle, her shirttail was untucked. Murdock noted no blood, however, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Gently, he lifted her off the floor and back to her feet. She stood for a moment, taking slow, deep breaths, trying to gather herself back into something vaguely dignified again. Then she did something he was totally unprepared for: she slapped him.

"You…you…jerk!"

"I'm sorry!" he yelped, backing away from her, rubbing the reddening handprint on his cheek.

She rounded on him, stalking him like an enraged tigress. "I'm just here to try to help you. I'm just asking you a few, _simple_ questions and you have to go and _scare_ me like that! What did I ever do to you? Huh?"

Murdock noted a Southern drawl in her voice. In a calmer state of mind, her voice would be like aloe on a burn.

"I said I was sorry," he said contritely.

She didn't appear to be placated just yet. "Your file said you were prone to practical jokes and tricks and acting all…all…_loony_, but this really beats all I ever saw!" She brushed her hair back, green eye snapping with rage. "Grow up!"

"Right. I will. Right now. Scout's honor." He held up his hand, index and middle finger straight up, in the time-honored salute. "Please…I'm sorry. I know I really should behave a lot better. I should pull myself together…and…uh…behave. I am in a mental hospital, after all."

Her anger was dissipating. He saw a glint in her eye, and the corner of her mouth twitched just a little. A little. _Humor_, he thought. She has a sense of humor. Unlike so many women, he thought with a trace of bitterness brought on by unfortunate experience. But she lifted her chin just the same, and he read generations of command bred into her. Southern belle, he thought. _Iron fist in a velvet glove_. Daddy was a General. Mama a Junior Leaguer. Granny was probably a Daughter of the Confederacy, and a descendant of at least three signers of the Declaration of Independence.

"I will _not_ accept _any_ such nonsense from you again, Captain Murdock. Now sit!" Her accent was much stronger now.

He obeyed immediately, like a trained Labrador retriever. Knees together, back straight, ass already hurting from the hard metal chair and the unnatural position he had taken. She eyed him for a moment, then righted her chair and, after checking it for what Murdock figured she thought would be a Whoopee cushion or a joy buzzer, sat down. She tucked her shirttail back in and smoothed her hair. Elegant, he thought. She crossed her legs. He looked away. No looking at the legs, he told himself firmly. No thinking about Southern accents and soft skin and green eyes.

Grow up.

She turned to a new page on the yellow tablet. Murdock remained straight in his seat, determined to be on his best behavior. She put her elbows on the table, leaned forward, centered her lovely green gaze on him and nodded.

"Now, shall we begin?"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

**Title**: Turn Me Loose

**Rating**: K (or PG, for some language here & there, and references to Yankees)

**Summary**: More therapy stuff. (I'm no bloody good at summaries!). Bad memories. Background info. More on Dr Monroe in the next chapter, hopefully.

"How do you feel when you're in the air, Captain?" Bridget asked him, almost before he was totally comfortable. Didn't this woman have a couch? Didn't psychologists have couches? No drugs, but at least a couch. He eyed her. Yeah, a couch made out of Corinthian leather…turn the lights down low…kiss you all over…

Murdock squirmed a little in his chair. "In a plane, or when I'm being thrown?" _Don't you think about that, you nitwit!_

"In a plane," she said patiently.

The corners of her eyes wrinkled only slightly. Murdock had yet to make her laugh, and while he knew it wasn't wise to fraternize with the enemy, so to speak, he still wanted to hear her laugh "Oh. Right. Pretty good. In the plane, that is. Being thrown…not so good. Kinda unpleasant, actually."

"And how often do you fly? In planes!"

"Er…" She had almost caught him. Again. If he had answered honestly, he would have said it had been just a few weeks ago, for God's sake. Some place in South America – one of those nasty little corners of hell, below the equator, where the government was a lot like a really bad soap opera. You don't ask questions of the locals down there, that's for sure. He had been able to read the fear in their eyes, and he had refrained from saying what he'd wanted to say. 'Hi! God only knows who I am, or where I'm from or who I work for, but please, tell me if you're voting for the dictator who controls every aspect of your life, or are you going to vote for the opposition so I can tear up your ration card right here and now?'

She had a way of doing that to him. She _distracted_ him. Why had Richter retired on him like that? Gone off to live in Hawaii, of all places. It burned Murdock's bacon. He had been to Hawaii…it had been a good two weeks' vacation – scuba diving, sunbathing…sex, even. Things hadn't worked out with Jodi, but they had parted amiably. No hard feelings. She was dancing in Vegas. He was sitting in an office in a psychiatric hospital, talking to a redheaded knockout who believed he was crazy.

Good God, maybe I am, he thought as he took far too long a look at her legs. Again. She needs a solid oak desk to sit behind, so I can't see them. And maybe about forty extra pounds. Some chin hair, on a few extra chins. A voice like Bea Arthur's. A collection of Barry Manilow records. _Anything_.

"Not since…er…Nam."

"Liar."

His head snapped up and he glared across the table at Bridget. She tapped her pencil on a newspaper headline. Murdock leaned forward, to read it upside down. A-TEAM EXECUTED. He frowned. He had seen the article already. An orderly snuck him newspapers and magazines every week. When he'd read it, he had felt proud of himself and the team for what they'd accomplished – a brilliant con, even if it had meant accepting that bastard Stockwell's help to escape into what was now servitude. Now…now, his feeling of accomplishment was a little hollow. Particularly as his mind was fogged up with what he knew was a very, very dangerous…oh, damn, why not just admit it? Hunger. There. He tried not to look at her. He was distracted. It had been a lot longer than a few weeks since he'd scratched that particular _itch_.

"The A-Team got out of that little country in South America via some pretty nifty flying by an unknown pilot," she said. "Two months ago, you were gone for several days, according to the staff. Even more, you escaped a few weeks ago – ran out of here in a straitjacket, jumped on a unicycle, and next thing we know, you're back here and being taken over to testify in the A-Team's trial…except your testimony was, to say, the least, unhelpful to all sides." She had read the transcription of Murdock's testimony, and the only thing that had come to Bridget Monroe's mind was 'Bloody _genius_'. Too bad it hadn't helped his friends. Army manuals, my nanny, she thought.

"Is there anything else?" he asked her brightly. _Think, think, think_…

"Prior to that, you were usually taken from this facility by a tall, handsome blond man. That's how they described him. Tell me the truth, Captain Murdock."

"I have nothing…nothing to say." _I can't lie! I'm terrible at lying! Don't tell me to lie, dammit!_

"They put you in here, didn't they? The A-Team? Weren't you angry at them for that?"

He shook his head. It had been for his own good. He had _agreed_…they hadn't browbeat him into it, after all. The nightmares had been so bad then, before they had left Nam, and his paranoia had gotten to the point that he refused to sleep. Face had been first to suggest it, and Murdock remembered feeling so betrayed, and it had been worse when Hannibal had agreed. Strange, but only B.A. had been against committing him…

"No. I'm not…I mean, I wasn't." He pursed his lips. He felt her green eyes on him, waiting, noting his every movement, every tic. Damn. Richter hadn't been able to get so much out of him. This slip of a _girl_ had him disarmed every time he came in here. How did she do it? Ever since their first interview, she had taken complete command. Maybe if he hadn't scared her, that first time, things would be different.

"But they were your friends. They brought you here…"

"The Army brought me here." He looked down at his tennis shoes. He was dressed like damned _kid_. His jaw was so tight now that his head was starting to hurt. He struggled to relax, but she was pushing him too far. He started counting backward, from twenty. Emma had taught him to do that, to keep his temper in check. People thought B.A. was dangerous when angered, but H.M. Murdock could inflict serious damage when pushed beyond his patience.

"Yes. But Dr Richter's notes…"

"Can we just not talk about that?" He straightened in the chair. "I'm not…I mean, I wasn't in the A-Team. I never _was_." _Liar, liar pants on fire_. Damn, I wish I had something else to wear when I'm in here. Dress like a grownup. Didn't she tell you to grow up? Forget about being angry. Grow up. Grownups are calm and rational and fortunately they don't have Spencer blood in their veins. His only Spencer cousin – the one who had thrown a _snake_ on him – had died back in Nam, and Murdock had always figured it had been from 'friendly' fire, so to speak. Murdock would have killed him himself, after he'd regained consciousness following the Snake Incident.

She sighed and sat back, and he took a slow, deep breath, forcing his anger away. Her hair was up, in a French twist, revealing a long, slender neck. She smelled like violets. Murdock forced his gaze up to the light again, until his eyes hurt. She made a little sound in her throat, to make him look at her again.

"Don't do that. It'll hurt your eyes. Tell me this, then…what is your full name?"

He shook his head.

"Is it an embarrassing name? Is that it?" She looked at the papers again. "H.M. That's all any of your records show. Even on your birth certificate…another interesting thing, by the way. There's no father listed."

"Why does that matter?" _No, no. Not this again!_

"Everybody has a father, Captain…"

"I didn't." He crossed his arms, angry with himself for letting that slip. He hadn't known his father. Had no idea who he was, or where he was. It didn't matter. "I sprang from Zeus's head!" He grinned at her, hopeful.

She didn't take the bait. What, was he transparent or something?

"And your mother died when your were five…"

"Another subject, please. I don't talk about that. Ever. With no one."

"Why?"

He got up then, forgetting his control. "Listen, I'm really tired. Can I go back to my room?"

"Captain Murdock, you're never tired." She sat back in her chair, evidently very calm. "Why don't you want to talk about that? You do have a family. You were raised by your grandparents, correct? Al and…Emma Murdock?"

"H. Emma," he corrected tiredly, rubbing his face.

"They were farmers, right? East Texas…a very old Texas family, by the way. Prominent. Wealthy until the Depression, but still what we in the South would call 'too poor to paint, but too proud to whitewash'."

"Yeah. Whatever." His grandmother had traced the Murdocks back to Scotland, when they were originally Murdochs and fought against the English crown (and damned near anybody else they could find, including sheep). There had been Murdochs at Stirling and Bannockburn, and with less glorious results at Pinkie and Flodden. He had learned 'The Ballad of Rob McDunn' as a boy – could sing it at a moment's notice. He had sometimes, to B.A.'s chagrin. _And he met the hell of battle in the Highlands and the Low, and the reason for the fighting long was in his blood to know...In the middle of the rumble he went forward gaining ground...and the bagpipes still were piping as the dead lay all around…_

"Apparently, they were your maternal grandparents. So your mother was not married to your father?"

"Apparently. I hear I was conceived on a train. I tell folks my sign is 'Dining Car In Opposite Direction'." He attempted to lighten the mood, to not let her know that he was starting to boil. Last time anybody brought up his father – or lack thereof – that person had ended up with a black eye and a missing tooth. Where Murdock had grown up, back in East Texas, illegitimacy was practically unknown and…well, according to his grandmother, if you have an illegitimate child, you might as well paint the house chartreuse and convert to Islam. He couldn't help being defensive about it. He was a walking symbol of his family's shame. Up until Claudia Murdock, nobody in his family had done anything quite so scandalous. Oh, sure, Uncle Billy had robbed a few trains, but it had been after the Civil War, while the government was helpfully 'reconstructing' everything, and they had been full of Yankees who had robbed decent Southerners of their lives and honor already, so they deserved it, Billy had said…

"On a train, Captain?" she said, her voice gentle. He looked at her again, and shook his head. That was one of the boxes in his head that he never opened, yet it was being torn open by a one-hundred-ten pound psychologist. His grandmother had had a streak of madness in her, too, and had kept similar mental boxes, but Al Murdock had been able to manage it quite well, and as long as he was around, Emma was just fine. He had always known which boxes in Emma's head bore opening, and which were best left sealed shut.

With Emma Murdock (she had been born a MacFarlane) had come madness and brilliance, which usually went hand in hand anyway. Hadn't she cared for her grandson from the day he was born, since her daughter Claudia had been so unstable and usually absent, either physically or mentally? According to Claudia, she had stepped in and taken over, without so much as a howdy-doo, and the rot had certainly set in between the two women, never to be repaired.

The old woman had sensed the same combination of brilliance and madness in him, and hadn't been surprised to find the boy reading at barely three. She had encouraged him to keep at it, to read everything he could find. "That boy's mind works faster'n' anything I ever saw," Emma had told Al. "It never stops. He never stops. It takes ropes and a konk on the head to get him to sleep." She had been a firm but loving disciplinarian, never nagging her grandson more than necessary, and always praising him for _enduring_, and God knew H.M. had had plenty to endure.

Kindergarten hadn't been easy, of course. His mother had just died and the teacher – Miss Lily, if he recalled – had gotten upset because H.M. could read, and not just those nitwit _Dick and Jane_ books. He was into encyclopedias and novels by kindergarten. He was sounding out the words himself, sitting on the kitchen counter in his grandparents' house, reading out loud from Bram Stoker's _Dracula _and scaring that poor Baptist preacher's wife half to death. He had been like a little idiot savant, getting each inflection right, though he probably had not, at the time, fully grasped every meaning. He did now. He was deep into Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_ now, and it gave him the creeps. All those inflections weren't exactly pleasant. He could hear the tone of each voice in that novel. Maybe I ought to stick to Dr Seuss. _Horton Hears A Who_.

"How did your mother die, Captain Murdock?" Dr Monroe asked him, jerking him from thoughts of confused elephants.

"She got sick." Murdock looked at his hands. He had his grandfather's hands. He remembered holding his hands up against the old man's, seeing the his fingers were going to be just as long, with the middle finger on each hand slightly crooked.

"Was she sick for very long?"

"I…" He searched for the memory. Emma had been crying for days, first denying her daughter was dead, and then railing at Al for having been too lenient with Claudia. Al had gently – but firmly, just like always – pointed out that no one could have held the girl back, once she turned eighteen and could do as she pleased. Claudia had run off with that man and hadn't known he was married. She hadn't inherited the MacFarlane brilliance, or the Murdock sense of propriety and duty. Her wildness came from the Spencer side of the family, hadn't it? Emma had beaten back the Spencer demon. Murdock remembered the way Al had looked at him then. Was the Spencer wildness in the boy?

Yeah, definitely.

Murdock looked at Monroe again, his brown eyes narrowing. "She died of a broken heart." For the first time, Dr Monroe looked startled. Murdock went on, his voice flattening out, forgetting that he was even speaking. "She ran off with a married man, when she was just out of high school. He was back from the war in Europe, a traveling salesman, so he said – he had landed at Normandy, he _told_ her – and swept her off her feet and right onto a mattress, and she got pregnant." Murdock spread his hands out. "She told him…and he told her he had to go back home, that he wanted nothing to do with her or the baby…me. Back to wherever he was from, and his wife and kids. Up North somewhere, I think. Naturally, he was a damnyankee, Granny Emma always said."

"Oh…" She didn't know what to say.

"Right. Y'know, I was ten years old 'fore I knew 'Damn Yankee' was two words? Anyhow, she never said his name, never talked about him. Refused to put a name on the birth certificate. She kept on for a while…tried to live on her own, with me, but she couldn't make it. She…" He stopped, suddenly realizing what he had just revealed. He gave Dr Monroe a hard look and turned to stare out the window. It was raining. Pouring, in fact. "I was always on the outside, lookin' in. That's how it is, when you're a bastard in a little town in East Texas. Folks'll look down their nose at you, but Granny Emma always said that high horses always have really spindly legs. They were always surprised when I made good grades – straight A student, graduated valedictorian, but refused to give the speech, though the one I wrote for 'em made the school board blush. I had skipped grades. Graduated when I was fifteen. Passed entrance exams to Ivy League schools, too, but went to UT, 'cause I'd give a julep to the ghost of General Grant 'fore I'd go to Massachusetts, where they can't even speak English. I went for a while, anyway – studied mathematics and chemistry, first. I started flyin' then. Crop dusters, an ancient Fokker that shouldn't have been allowed to roll down a runway, much less fly…anything I could fit into. So I quit and joined the Army when I was seventeen. Lied about my age." It had been one of the few lies Murdock had been able to tell convincingly. He had looked older. He had certainly _felt_ older.

"I suppose you often feel angry about…all that," she said, and when he glanced at her, he could see that even she recognized the banality of the statement.

"Oh, my! The bromides! How clever!" Murdock began pacing, feeling trapped. He had said too much. He had never even told Face about his childhood. Not even Dr Richter had been able to get this much out of him.

Dr Monroe sat still, waiting. They had had several sessions by now, and every time he had left feeling drained. Last week, she had gotten him to talk about a few things that had happened back in Nam. Not everything. _That_ box was made of steel, and was locked and tied up good and tight, to never be opened again. But it had been enough to leave him rattled and suddenly wanting – after ten years – a shot of bourbon and about ten thousand cigarettes. He couldn't drink any more – that stuff made him sick as a cat.

"Please, Captain. Sit down."

He didn't obey her this time. He stared out the window, haunted by ghosts. Cousin Frank and that damned snake. Granny, doing her best to comfort him and soothe away the demons, encouraging him to learn as much as he could. Grandpa, calm and steady, full of stories about soldiers in beechnut uniforms, fighting for lost causes - about honor and decency and Stonewall Jackson and General Lee. God, he missed them. Well, except cousin Frank. Frank probably had Satan running scared.

Finally, she closed the file and stood. When he looked back at her, she nodded.

"I suppose we're done then, for today."

"Right." He started to walk past her, head down, but bumped into her. They both stepped back, neither acknowledging the electric spark, but both fully aware of it and reeling. "See ya 'round, doc."

She managed a little smile and let him leave. He always went directly to his room, with no side trips, like other patients often took. Of course, he was her only patient, and would be for some time, until her superiors determined that she could make any headway with the hardest case in the whole psych ward.

Bridget sat down at her desk and rubbed her temples. Interviews with Captain Murdock were always tense. She did her best to keep them that way, as it kept him at an appropriate distance. It was best to be cool and efficient around him, and to never, _ever_ reveal her own reaction to him. The lanky pilot had a _way_ about him – a kind of elegance and confidence that peaked her curiosity more and more as she learned about his past. He had suffered a severe trauma back in Viet Nam, and possibly even before then, and it had been the sort that any lesser man would have succumbed to completely. The details were sketchy, but certainly horrific enough just from what the reports had said. Bridget wasn't sure she _wanted_ to go there with him. She wasn't sure he would ever trust her enough anyway. Did he trust _anyone_?

She scribbled her notes before looking out the window at the rain. PTSD, obviously. Intermittent memory loss, according to Dr Richter, but Richter had also noted that Captain Murdock enjoyed – or was perhaps cursed by – a photographic memory, and had a grasp of languages that boggled the mind. Perhaps he selects what he'll forget, she thought. Unpleasant things are hardly what we bring up on purpose, but then the mind is a funny thing. From painful memories to songs you absolutely hate, the mind will bring that sort of thing up at the most inopportune times. Horrific bloodshed or _I Got You Babe_. Either way, the mind can be cruel.

Richter had tried to get the Army to conduct an IQ test on Murdock, but they had refused, and so the psychologist had conducted a few tests of his own and had concluded that Murdock was very definitely 'of far, far above average intelligence'. She looked at Richter's notes. "Captain Murdock's intelligence is actually _frightful_, as it is far beyond anything that can be accurately measured. His recall is detailed. His observational skills are unbelievable. And his ability to size up someone and use that person's weaknesses to his own advantage is quite remarkable." Richter had been uncertain about Murdock's insanity, being convinced that much of Murdock's psychosis was merely a game – pretend, and possibly a means of escaping from unpleasantness. "A brilliant actor," Richter had even written in the margins of one age. "Today, he performed Hamlet's soliloquy with a brilliance Olivier would have envied, then asked me if I wanted to hear it in Yiddish."

So was he lying about all he had just told her? Monroe tucked Murdock's file into her cabinet and left the room. That was going to be hard to determine. His face was so expressive – so finely drawn, and his warm brown eyes held no deceit whatsoever. Only a kind of sadness that made her wish she could comfort him somehow. But that could lead to something extremely dangerous for her and for him.

She was heading down the hallway when she heard noises at the front desk. One of the nurses was looking distressed as she talked to a rather portly but nattily dressed man.

"You mean he's being released? Just like that?" the nurse asked, bewildered.

"Just like that," the man said, giving her a sharp little smile. He looked at Bridget, who stepped forward.

"Who is being released?" she asked.

"Captain Murdock." Cold blue eyes studied her for a moment, with only a vague glimmer of interest. Sizing me up, too, she thought bitterly.

"Oh? On what grounds?"

"He's not insane." The man handed her a folder. "I trust there will be no difficulties with regard to Captain Murdock's release. These orders came in today, and are from the very highest levels."

"And who are you?" Bridget asked him, stepping into his path as he turned to leave.

"General Hunt Stockwell, ma'am. Now if you'll excuse me…"

"I am almost certain, sir, that there is no excuse for you at all." She put every inch of Southern-bred hauteur into her response. Stockwell only looked amused and let her take the folder from his hand.

Bridget opened the folder, and was stunned at what she read, and even more when she saw the signature at the bottom of the page. "You're…are you serious? Captain Murdock has major issues…"

"Which are no longer issues." The man smiled at her again, and walked away.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Title: Old Yeller?

Rating: K+

She couldn't understand why she wanted to cry. Did he do this to every woman he met? Turn on the crazed grin, talk a bit of nonsense, pour on that lazy Southern charm, and then he's _gone_. Leaving chaos in his wake, like a big, overactive kid on a sugar high. Her life was certainly going to go back to its boring routine, including a weekly date with a surgeon from L.A. who happened to possess the personality of a dial tone.

"This will be our last session, Captain Murdock, as I understand you're being released."

He started to speak, then gulped dramatically and stared at her, wide-eyed, apparently confused. "I say…huh?"

"You're being released," she reiterated. "Orders from way up high."

He looked at the ceiling, brown eyes rolling back to her. "Hey, listen, I know the Lord moves in mysterious ways and all, but I don't think He's really all that concerned with Veteran's Administration psychiatric affairs…I mean, He's got a whole universe to run. I don't think God Himself wants to get caught up in all that red tape."

"Not that far up," she said. "But very high. Higher than most of us are allowed anywhere near." She looked down at the folder, and at the signature.

"So I'm being released. Just like that?" He snapped his fingers.

"Yes. You've been declared sane."

He leveled his stare at her, and she could see the wheels turning in his head. Working things over carefully, running scenarios, weighing options. Did he know about Stockwell? Had he pulled his _own_ set of strings, with some kind of insider knowledge at his own disposal? Not even Bridget knew anything about Stockwell, and she had made countless phone calls in the past three days, trying to figure out who that man was, and where he'd come from. The only thing she had learned that she felt was approaching the truth was that Captain H.M. Murdock had a few tricks up his own sleeve, and maybe…_maybe_ that was what had lead to his release.

"That's just about the cra-…er…well, yeah. Sane. Of course." He slumped in his chair a moment, momentarily forgetting to sit up straight like a good boy, as he'd always done during their sessions. His rubbed his face, looking stunned, but yet again, Bridget sensed that he wasn't really _that_ surprised. Olivier-level acting talent he had in spades, but so far as an ability to cover _every _emotion – he wasn't quite so swift.

She cleared her throat and became brisk and businesslike. "So this will be our last session. I suppose we'll just go over the topic I had already planned to discuss today."

He leaned forward, eager, then cast about as if aware that the topic wasn't going to be easy. "The Middle East? How to properly roast a good side of beef? Why Ginger Rogers was a better dancer than Fred Astaire, because she had to do everything backwards?"

"No," she said, a little too sharply. Talking to him was like a conversational Mister Toad's Wild Ride. She never knew where she'd end up. One day, it might be Charlemagne's endeavor to learn how to read by putting a book under his pillow every night. Another, it would the socio-political ramifications of tapioca pudding. One day, he had drawn her into an intriguing – and scholarly – discussion on the dialect patterns of natives of the Virginia Tidewater region. "I was going to ask you about your…uh…" She looked down at the scheduled topics of this week's session. Oh, why couldn't it be next week instead? Next week they were scheduled to talk about his phobias. But there wouldn't be a next week. After tomorrow, she'd never see him again.

He hid a smile, but only barely. She glimpsed it. Knew he was only pretending, which _should_ have annoyed her. "My uh? I'm afraid I don't have an uh. I had a cat once...and you know all about my dog Billy."

She put her elbow on the table and dropped her forehead into the heel of her palm, wincing. Was he trying to prove something here? Trying to rattle her, cut off the tenuous friendship – could she really call it that? – they had developed so he could go his merry way, wreaking havoc in the world outside, instead of in this little room and in her own life?

"Your sexual…your sexual…"

That stopped him dead. For a moment, they stared at each, green level with brown, neither moving. She finally wavered, unable to hold on to that thread any longer.

"History."

He exhaled sharply. "Oh, good. History. Napoleon's campaign in Russia. Let's start there. Bloody awful, I hear. I mean, the borscht alone must have been really hard for a French palate. But who was really surprised to see the French lose that one? I mean, they couldn't even win their own damned civil war. It took a psychotic Corsican for them to even…"

"I mean your sexual history!" she shouted at him, and glanced toward the door. The therapists in the psych ward weren't supposed to be the ones shouting, for God's sake.

"Oh, God." He took a deep breath, his hand covering his own face now. "Seriously, baby, we don't want to go there."

"W-Why?" She knew her face was pink, forgetting to scold him about calling her baby. She had discussed sex openly and frankly with lots of patients in the past, male and female. She didn't ascribe to Kinseyan views on the topic, as his 'findings' had never been replicated by any other sex researchers, but she wasn't _ashamed_ to talk about it. People do it all the time. Bees do it. Birds do it. Fifteen year old kids with no brains do it! Bridget Monroe didn't do it, though. Hadn't since a disastrous and humiliating incident back in college. She straightened herself, determined to continue even while wishing the earth would open up and swallow her, and prayed for forbearance and some degree of calm.

"Because. Because it's…it's _vulgar_. I mean…I don't think sex is particularly vulgar. It's downright fun, particularly when done in hot air balloons. But sex is an entirely private and personal matter between yourself – i.e., me – and the person you're – that is, me – is…or are… doing it….to." He gestured rarely wildly as he spoke, his hands indicating his own grammatical confusion and personal embarrassment.

"Well, this is a private session, and I'm obviously not going to reveal what you say to anyone. You can trust me."

"Sure I can." He looked away then, toward the window. Bridget followed his gaze. Outside it was bright and sunny. Bees were buzzing. Birds were singing. Probably because they were so happy about their uncomplicated lives, where no one asked them such embarrassing questions, and because they could do as they pleased with no emotional consequences.

"So…er…how old were you?" she finally asked, dragging her eyes away from the birds and the bees outside.

"Last birthday? Thirty six, I think."

"Captain Murdock…"

He wound down, momentarily defeated. "I was seventeen."

"And she was…?"

"Well…she _was_. Very much so. A girl, I mean. A nice girl. Still is, last I heard." He looked like he wanted to start chewing his nails. Or climb the walls. Or run screaming from the room. So much for your sanity, Captain, she thought, for once feeling that she really did have the upper hand.

"How long did you know her? Before, I mean. The…uh…"

He took her meaning and ran with it, without meeting her eyes. "We dated a few times. Things kind of progressed and then…you know. It just…happened. What is this, a locker room?" he gasped. "Hey, I mean, no one has ever asked me about this before." He rubbed his forehead, looking all together discombobulated. "Not even my friends. Not even Fa-…" He shook his head, as if trying to clear it.

Silence fell between them again. She watched him, noting his long, curling eyelashes and high cheekbones. Girls probably found him funny and dashing and crazy, particularly in that bomber jacket and aviator shades, with that air of madness and mystery. Some probably had thought they could tame him. Calm him down. Some had probably found him bewildering, and plenty more had probably found him completely adorable.

"I know you feel like I'm prying, but…er…sex is a part of every person's makeup. Our sexuality, the things we hope for…romance, passion…a-all that…it's normal, usually. It can be our dark side or just _one_ side, but it's still a side. It's a part of every person's makeup, though I am of the school of opinion that yes, society does make far too much of it, good or bad or indifferent, but it is _there_ and it's a subject worth discussion...honest and frank discussion."

"Right, right. Hey, I've read the books. And I'll be honest with you, I didn't see anything of myself in the abnormal psychology books so far as sex went." He swallowed nervously. "You know. Attitude, normal. Preferences all appeared to be wired correctly. No fetishes, no abnormal desires. I don't like being tied up and spanked. I mean, frankly, I don't get the whole 'tie her to a wheel and beat her with a leather strap' thing. I mean…ew. Really. You have a hard day at work, and you go home and dress up in leather or a Nazi uniform and let your partner strap you to a wheel and spin you around and make you listen to…I dunno…Wagner while beating you with a riding crop. No thanks. I like women, and yes, I happen to like sex like anybody else and oh, God…listen, all right? I was taught to treat women with respect, y'know? To view them as potential friends before I…you know…er…made a move. Unfortunately, I guess I was always so…_weird_ that most of them liked me okay but didn't think of me _that_ way. And those that did, I thought _they_ were weird for thinkin' that way at all!"

"But some did, and they weren't crazy," she nodded. "I think one even visited you here a few times. A Kelly…"

He shook his head, warning her, eyes narrowed. That one clearly still hurt. Bridget was not the sort to pour salt on open wounds. Not even as a psychologist. She let it go. Besides, she didn't know if she could really _handle_ knowing about his love life. She was only interested – in a purely clinical sense, she had written firmly in her notes – in his _sex_ life, and love and sex don't always go together.

"So after that first girl, there have been others."

He shrugged. "One or two. I'm hardly a ladies' man. Besides which, the field is limited a great deal in a _mental_ hospital. The nurses…well, that just seems inappropriate, or _icky_. Or both."

She couldn't help feeling relieved to hear that. She had heard snippets of gossip, but nothing about Captain Murdock and the younger nurses. Everyone in the hospital genuinely liked him. They all found him to be very sweet and gentle, and harmless even at his most bizarre behavior. Only a couple had ever appeared to appreciate his looks, or his loopy charm, but none had ever taken advantage of him.

Could they? She looked at him narrowly. She had a strong suspicion that H.M. Murdock was quite capable of seducing a woman. That he had a few lines of his own, and coupled…oh, bad choice of words there, Monroe, she thought…with his knowledge of psychology, he would have little trouble making a woman willing to cast caution to the wind. She sensed a lot of old-fashioned chivalry in the captain, but he was also a man, and she knew that if the opportunity was put in front of him, he'd take it.

"Except that you've been sprung from this place so many times I lost count of the incident reports," she pointed out. "And I'm sure you met plenty of women along the way."

"Oh, but it was never me who got the babes…it was…"

"It was?"

He frowned, agile mind hurdling over fences like a champion steeplechaser. "My alter ego?" he asked hopefully.

"Murdock…"

"Listen, why not just talk about something else now? You know I'm no angel. I've had more than two…er…proverbial tumbles in the timothy."

"What do you want to talk about?"

He studied her, and she could almost feel his eyes taking in everything. When they went lower than her neck, however, she crossed her arms across her chest. He had the good grace to look embarrassed and settle his gaze to somewhere above her right ear.

"You."

"Me? That would be entirely inappropriate. I am your psychologist." She lifted her chin, aware that her cheeks were heating up again. Time to be firm and direct and by God not feeling like you're sixteen at the garden cotillion in Savannah, dancing with Jeff Beautancourt and moonlight hit your bosom and the band started playing 'Stardust' and you believed that your breasts had the power to inspire _music_ (and Jeff Beautancourt). Bridget had never had much trouble with her own self-confidence, except for what had happened with Tom Wheeler. In her younger days, she had had a few _ego_ problems, but had grown out of them. She hoped. The idea that she was still that stupid, selfish teenager made her extremely anxious. She had beaten away that part of herself. Locked it up and thrown away the key.

"Well, tomorrow you won't be. I'll be on my way to…some place else, with my meager belongings wrapped in a handkerchief and tied to the end of a pole, like Huck Finn. So you can tell me about yourself. Just remember – I'm a Jungian, so there'll be no blaming mother."

She smiled, in spite of everything, and couldn't deny blushing when he smiled back. "I don't blame my mother."

"Normal childhood?"

She shrugged. "Ups and downs. My parents were prominent in Savannah society, but they were also kind and warm and I had pretty secure childhood. No major incidents. Gidget in the Deep South, frankly. We had a big house, servants…but times got tough sometimes, but we never sold a piece of furniture or any of the silver, 'cause Mama couldn't bear to think of Yankees handling her best tableware. Old Line Southern. Francis the First flatware pattern. You know…"

He grinned. "Right. Granny Emma had Chrysanthemum." He sat back in his chair and crossed his knees. "Go on."

"I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. An _old_ silver spoon, which had been hidden in the well when the Yankees came in eighteen-sixty-four and again in the nineteen sixties, when Mama opened the house for tours to raise money."

He snickered. "That musta been fun."

"Oh yeah. Except that the tour guide wanted to drum up interest, so she started saying that my great-great-granddaddy carried on an affair with a slave, whom he later murdered. Mama got _awful_ mad about that. Her great-great-granddaddy was a preacher and a gentleman at that, and the family never owned slaves, as they were Abolitionists. She proceeded to inform that woman that she didn't care if she had to lie, cheat, steal or kill, but as God was her witness, she would never allow a bunch of hairy-legged Yankees in black knee socks and sandals to come into her house and drip Sno-Cones on her two-hundred year old Aubusson carpets again. Then she ran 'em all out of the house with a broom."

He laughed out loud. "Sounds like she was a pistol."

"She is. She's fun. You two would hit it right off." She could almost see her mother, Victoria Beauville Monroe and H.M. Murdock strolling around the grounds at the house, teasing each other mercilessly.

"What, she's crazy too?"

"She's not. And neither are you." Bridget tapped the folder on her desk. "Beside, Captain, we are both from the South. Down South, we're proud of our crazy people. We bring 'em downstairs and show 'em off."

"Yeah, Granny Emma showed me off a lot too." He raised one eyebrow, nodding, then straightened in his chair. "So…you got a boyfriend?"

"That's entirely too personal, Captain Murdock," she said, pulling herself back together. She had let things go a bit far here. She needed to regain control of this session or she'd be the one in therapy, and he'd be sitting there with a tablet and pen, asking her 'How did that make you feel?'

"But you do have one, right? It's not like you'd have trouble gettin' yourself one."

She pinked. He grinned. She looked down at the release papers again. Damn. I have to have dinner with James tonight. Who needs Quaaludes just to become dull. He should host a jazz program on the radio. "That's neither here nor there."

"You were just askin' me about my sex life. I think I can get some intel on you, can't I? It's only fair. Tit for tat, so to speak."

"I was asking you in my professional capacity."

"And I'm askin' you in my own unprofessional capacity. Besides, with ten years of analysis and memorization of entire passages of Freud, Jung and countless other experts on the workings of the human mind, I could easily pass the boards of any school of psychology. So I think I can pretend for a minute that I'm _your_ therapist. So just answer the question, eh?"

She sighed. "Yes."

"Yes? You have a boyfriend?"

"Yes."

He sat back in the chair. Late that night, she would go over this conversation carefully, and would admit to herself that she was gratified to see a cloud pass over his expression. Disappointment, maybe? _Jealousy_? But right now, in her professional capacity, she had to ignore that and plow on.

"What's he like?"

"Captain…"

"I mean, is he a doctor, like you? Psychologist?"

"No. He's not a psychologist."

"Hm." Murdock drummed his fingers on his knee, thinking. "A lawyer! Yeah…a corporate attorney. Nice clothes. Drives a Porsche."

James drove a Jaguar, but at least Murdock had gotten his profession wrong. She looked away, afraid Murdock would actually read that in her mind. Oh, for heaven's sake, he's not a mind reader! High IQ does not a psychic make.

"A Jag! He drives a Jag!" Murdock hooted gleefully. Her eyes widened with shock. Oh my God!

Her reaction made him start laughing, a sound she recorded carefully in her mind, for when she was feeling down. "Y'know, I never knew if it was pronounced 'Porsh' or 'Porsha'. Which is it?"

"Depends on who's driving it and who's watching it go by, I suppose," she answered gloomily. "And yes, he drives a _Jag._"

"Figures. Some uptight tightass with no sense of humor. Degree from…lemme think…Harvard."

"Yale."

He snickered. "Likes jazz and Woody Allen movies. Quotes them, even. Every line."

She wanted to throw up. "Stop it. That's very rude."

"I was just kidding, but…really? He loves Woody Allen movies? Who dates a guy who quotes Woody Allen movies? I _hate _Woody Allen movies. All that whining…besides being chased across a field by a breast the size of a Buick."

"Captain Murdock, you're going too far. Stop it."

"Does he cry when Old Yeller dies?"

Bridget rolled her eyes. Come to think of it, her mother had given her the criteria for finding the right man (aside from 'No job, no car, run fast and run far'): he cries when Old Yeller dies, he stands up for 'The Star Spangled Banner', he loves John Wayne movies and he's washed in the Blood of the Lamb. If he meets all those requirements, he's the right one. As soon as he gets rid of the mullet, that is.

"I don't know. I don't think he's seen _Old Yeller_."

"He's never seen _Old Yeller_! What is he, a Communist? An _Englishman_? Or…God save us all…a _Yankee_?"

"James is, I admit, from Brookline, Massachusetts." Her mother had been just as appalled. _You might as well just dig up your Granddaddy and burn him at the stake!_

"Good God. His name is James? Not Jim? Jimmy? Jim Bob?"

Her forehead smacked back into her palm. He wound down, perhaps recognizing that he was pushing it too far. They sat in silence for a moment, his mind forming a picture of James, no doubt, and Bridget wishing to God that she had never let him take over like that. "No. His name is James. Dr James Westin."

"_Psychiatrist_?"

"Surgeon! Plastic surgeon!"

That did it. Murdock started laughing. Just laughing, arms hanging at his sides. Not really mocking laughter, but laughter, and it made Bridget jump to her feet. He tried to stop, but would look at her again and just start up again. "A friggin' plastic surgeon? That's hysterical!"

"I don't see what's so funny about me dating a plastic surgeon!" she snapped. "Now stop laughing, or…or I'll tell them that I think you're still…still crazy and that you shouldn't leave!"

He stopped laughing immediately. His eyes narrowed. Danger! Danger! her mind shouted. He got up slowly, like a big, lazy cat, and took a step toward her. Bridget flinched, momentarily frightened. What was he going to do? She looked around, as if expecting to see a weapon she could use to defend herself, but the only thing on her desk was a little resin Chinese dragon. She had a stapler in her drawer somewhere. But Murdock wasn't moving any more. Instead, he had stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have laughed at you."

She took a deep breath. "You're right. You shouldn't have laughed," she said firmly, when it looked like he thought she agreed with _his_ point about James.

"I guess this is it then," he said. "Our last session. I leave tomorrow morning."

"Right."

"I never enjoyed analysis much," he said. "I usually had dental exams that were more fun. But this…this hasn't been bad. Not really."

"Oh. Good. I'm glad it wasn't…er…too bad."

Murdock nodded. He pulled his blue baseball cap out of his pocket and put it on. She swallowed. _Dashing_. Eager for his freedom, for a new life.

"So you're not my psychologist any more, right?"

She looked at her watch. One-thirty. "Precisely. As of right now, I'm no longer your psychologist."

"Good. Right, I mean. Yes. Uh…" He cast about, searching the room, finally settling his gaze on her little dragon, then looked back at her. "See ya."

"So that's it? Not even a goodbye?"

"What?" He did a more than passable Bogart. "Here's lookin' at you, kid."

"Please…" She struggled to maintain her composure, walking around her desk to stand at its corner, hand clutching the edge. _Stop being ridiculous_! He's just a patient. The first of many more, all of whom are far crazier…if that was possible. But, Lord help her for being _human_, she was going to miss him.

"Oh. Well. Yeah. You're…uh…a good psychologist. I think you even set my head straight on a few things."

Bridget's brow furrowed. "Really?"

"Like…er…" He casually strolled a little closer. She didn't move, but tipped her head back a little, to meet his gaze directly. "Turning over a new leaf. Starting over. Staying on an even keel, you know? Trying something…new."

She nodded, knowing her lips had parted. For just a moment – or maybe it was decades – neither of them moved. He seemed to consider his options, then, without saying another word, he left. The door closed behind him. She heard him whistling 'As Time Goes By'. Bridget moved back to her chair and sat down, and outside, the birds kept singing and the bees kept buzzing. She picked up her phone and called James's office.

"Dr Westin isn't in, Dr Monroe."

"Oh? Tell him I need to cancel this evening. I'm going to the movies…I'm gonna see _Old Yeller_."


	4. Chapter 4

Secrets and Lies

Murdock was packing up to go. Gathering up the necessary stuff and throwing out the crap. Rubber chicken…give away. His collection of T-shirts…keep. Old newspapers…throw out, except for the ones from back home, with the obituaries for his grandparents. His photographs of his mother and grandparents. Definite keepers. He had opened his closet and his chest of drawers, and his old Army foot locker and was pawing through all manner of junk and treasures. Mementos of days gone by, all with some little piece of his life to think about. His teddy bear, for instance. He often bought other teddy bears, to use in his on-going squabble with B.A., but this one…he had had it from babyhood. It the only gift his mother had ever given him, save a good singing voice and dark brown eyes, and he kept it in his footlocker.

He grinned when he found a program from the 1980 Kentucky Derby – he had put down fifty on Genuine Risk. What a day that had been – horses were the only four-legged animals out there that came close to flight, and so Murdock had a special affinity for them, and they for him, in fact. Face hadn't appreciated that trip, though, as it had been a pretty far detour on the way back to the VA, but Murdock had been adamant and conning a little private jet hadn't been all _that_ hard (a good grasp of Arabic on Murdock's part, an expensive-looking suit and a story about co-owning at Derby starter had worked quite well). Besides which, Face had bet on Jaklin Klugman, in spite of Murdock's expert handicapping. "Fillies don't beat colts," Face had insisted. Murdock had laughed at him all the way back to California.

Hannibal had given him all three bullets that had nearly ended his life, at various times. The first two from Nam. The third from when he'd been shot by that no-good rancher. Murdock kept the slugs in a pillbox. He rattled the box and thought about Death. He remembered his grandfather telling him that he always thought about death whenever he put on clean underwear, and lately, Murdock did, too. Another one for the psychiatrists, he thought, shaking his head.

At first, he didn't hear the knock at his door. He was engrossed in increasingly morbid thoughts and whether he should send his clothes down for a cleaning before he left tomorrow morning. _Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow_, he thought, his mind running quickly through the highlights of Hamlet, but his thoughts spun over to Willie Nelson: _Yesterday is dead and tomorrow is blind_. That line gave him pause as he looked down at the Derby program. He tossed it into the box of 'keeps' and heard the knock, insistent this time.

He was hoping it would be Dr Monroe. He wanted to see her again, just once, in a vaguely masochistic way. Just to take a photograph in his memory of her face and of her figure, so he could think about her when he was feeling low. He would probably feel guilty about thinking about her that way, but he was a human being with a normal sex drive, and a little fantasy wasn't a _sin_, after all. Granny would say that being tempted wasn't wrong. It was giving in that caused all that trouble. 'The snake could talk to Eve all day about apples, but it was only when she ate it that the rot set in', she would say. Murdock opened his door and was momentarily taken aback when he saw very definitely the wrong person.

"Stockwell."

"Captain. May I come in? I'd rather the staff not know I'm here."

"Yeah, you wouldn't want to be seen in the booby hatch, would ya?" Murdock stepped aside and let his new 'boss' in. Stockwell surveyed the room for a moment, then turned to eye him.

"How did you get a television and all these arcade games…in a mental hospital?"

"Oh…well, you know. The art of manipulation is learned, not inborn," Murdock shrugged casually. "I was an excellent student, many years ago."

Stockwell frowned. "I'm quite aware of that, Captain. And I will say again that I do not appreciate being _blackmailed_."

"Hey, you thought you had connections. I got better connections. And my connections view me with a favorable eye and they don't like _you_. I did good for 'em, some years ago. One phone call from me and I'm not even cashing in the first _few_ hundred chips. Easy peasy, General Squeezy." He went to his chest of drawers and began taking out clothes. He stacked them neatly in a suitcase.

Stockwell didn't appear to appreciate Murdock's flippancy, though he knew Murdock's behavior was just a sly cover. "You know that if you turn on me, I'll send your friends straight to prison. Military prison. And you'll be right back here…or in prison with them."

Murdock didn't let that concern him. Stockwell had to hold up his end of the deal, or all bets were off. He threw more clothes into another suitcase. "I can convince anybody that I'm not rowing with a full set of oars, so I'm back to a cushy life here again…'cept that won't happen. Not if you know what's good for you." He settled a steady gaze at Stockwell, and was gratified when the older man finally flinched.

"Fine. But Smith and your friends have to fulfill the entire contract."

"Yeah, whatever." Murdock turned back to his packing. "_We_ uphold our end of every bargain, what with being honest men and all."

Stockwell was silent for a moment, then shook his head. "I said it before, Captain, but whoever declared you insane should have his license revoked. But I am surprised that you'd really want out of here. Life won't be easy, you know. It's rent and bills and groceries…"

"Which I can pay for," Murdock grinned, not even turning back to look at him. "You think I don't have money at hand?"

"Where on earth would you get money, Captain?" Stockwell asked, forgetting for once to be disdainful. He knew he was going to have to really work on _that_ when he was around Murdock, or Smith, Baracus and Peck would all be suspicious.

"Here and there," Murdock shrugged. He pointed to a stack of bound newspapers. "I think you've heard of the _Wall Street Journal_, right? Just watch the numbers and pay attention, and pretty soon, the numbers are takin' care of you." Part of his earnings from the stock market actually went to maintaining the house and the land back in Texas, because it was _his_ and by God nobody else was ever going to own it except a Murdock. Period.

"And you expect the A-Team to continue to believe you're barely making ends meet?"

Murdock finally turned to face him, eyes narrowed. "Listen, what they do or don't know about me is not _your_ concern, _General_. What is your concern is that if you break your promise, it's dancing lessons with your cellmate Bubba at Leavenworth. Got it?"

Stockwell frowned. He certainly didn't like having been outwitted by a man he had initially believed was insane. Crazy like a fox, he thought, and just as clever. He had completely failed to recognize the shrewd intelligence in Captain Murdock's eyes, the first time he'd met him, and certainly wished he could go back to that moment and take another tack. But it was too late, and Murdock held the cards. It was that simple.

"Fine," Stockwell nodded. "I will see you in Langley Friday night."

"Yeppers. Now get out of here 'fore the purple wobblies start to wobblin'."

Stockwell paused, studying the captain for a moment. Murdock had a way of keeping one off balance – one never knew if he was joking or if he was deadly serious about his madness. Finally, he shook his head and left, thinking about kings and pawns. In this match, he had to admit – H.M. Murdock was the king.

The VA staff was genuinely sad to see Murdock go. For ten years, he had been a favorite resident in the facility, and as he prepared to leave, he had decided to hand out parting gifts. He kicked his box of 'leaves' down the hall while carrying his last box (a very important box) and, after setting the 'take' box on the counter at the front desk, he turned to regard the troops. _MacArthur_, he thought. No…no…_Patton_.

"Troops!" he began, as they lined up, as if expecting his last routine. Some were even standing at attention. He took a breath, let his mind loose and remembered his drama classes back at UT. He had been required to take them. He frowned when one nurse met his gaze a little too directly, and after giving her a remonstrative glare, he began pacing up and down the line. "After ten years, I am being relieved of my command of this ward."

"We heard, sir," one of the younger nurses said. She looked positively bereft.

"Do not speak out of turn!" he snapped. She flushed and stood at attention again. "And as I part for…er…greener pastures where the butterflies have no fear of nets, I feel that I should bestow on all of you some mementos indicating my very genuine feelings of…uh…respect and…er…affection for you all." He bent down and snatched an item out of the box. "So here, Regina," he said, standing in front of a plump but pretty little blonde. "Here is my rubber chicken," he said solemnly, as if presenting her with a medal. He handed the floppy thing to her, and she stared at it for a moment, holding it away from her as if it were a rabid weasel, before meeting his gaze again. Her eyes were watering. She needed a good laugh, he thought. He leaned forward and whispered "_Smack that idiot teenaged son of yours with it until he stops giving you lip and gets a job_."

"Thank you, sir. I appreciate it."

"And for Penelope, you little minx, you…my pet rock." The nurse - a pretty and compact little brunette whose figure Murdock has contemplated a few times, but never considered sampling - was in tears. He handed her the painted rock (complete with peace sign and happy face) and hoped she'd figure out that inside was a genuine amethyst – he had heard she was having some financial difficulties after her husband had left her and their kids for some bimbo. "When it's _really_ bad, beat it! Beat it hard, with great precision and care…" He leaned forward and whispered in her ear. "_And let a professional do it for God's sake!_" He straightened and gave her a frown. "Until it opens!"

She began sobbing.

"And Travis!" The tall orderly, who had snuck Murdock newspapers and magazines for years, looked as though he was having trouble holding it together. "Here." He handed the orderly a stack of newspaper clippings. Stock tips. He met Travis' eye. "Study these battle plans carefully, for the day will come!" He saluted. "Remember the Apple…I mean, the Alamo!" He stood on his toes and whispered. "_Apple Computers_!"

"Yes sir!" Travis, saluting sharply. Murdock saluted back and clicked his heels together.

He went on down the line, bestowing gifts to each staff member who had shown him particular kindness over the years. He was actually going to miss most of them. His decade in the VA hadn't really been unpleasant. In fact, many of his forays outside the facility had been violent and dangerous, and one had nearly killed him. But he was needed elsewhere now, and he had a new life to live.

When he came to the end of the line, he glanced back down the hall. His box was empty. Up his bomber jacket sleeve was a little resin Chinese dragon. The staff stood silent, noses dripping, eyes brimming. Regina, holding her rubber chicken, was openly weeping. Good God, he thought. Maybe they need some time in the bouncy room. He nodded to them all, turned on his heel and started toward the door.

"Captain Murdock."

He almost bowled into Bridget, who was standing with her hands on her hips, looking like a high school senior's fantasy in a light blue blouse, black miniskirt and high heels. He took a step back, but she continued to stand there, not even flinching.

"I gather you're leaving now."

"Yep." He gave her a wide grin. Perfect.

"Well, I wanted to wish you all the best." She extended her hand. He looked down at it, and finally took it in his. Then he cast caution to the wind and pulled her to him, bent only a little and kissed her. He was pleased when her lips parted, and was even more pleased when her hands clutched briefly at the shoulders of his jacket before her arms slowly wreathed around his neck. His arm slipped around her waist as his mouth blatantly made love to hers. She was as sweet as strawberry wine, and gave as good as she got.

The staff watched this, astounded but silent, looking sideways at each other and not sure what to do. Finally, Murdock came up for air and pulled away, looking into her eyes, enjoying the moment and feeling a little dizzy. Bridget gazed back at him, a bemused expression on her face. Her shirttail had been pulled out of her skirt. Her hair was a little mussed. Murdock grinned at her and walked out the door, whistling cheerfully. He shoved the box into a waiting cab and jumped in. His other possessions were already on a plane, heading toward Virginia. He could still see Bridget standing there – she had turned to watch him leave, and he wished like hell that he could stay, but he had a duty to perform and friends who needed him.

He was going to miss her the most. God, but he could still taste her. He hoped he would taste her for the rest of his life.

"So how does it feel to be sane?"

Templeton Peck grinned at Murdock, who was spinning a highball glass on the bar at the house in Langley.

"I dunno. I don't know anybody to compare notes with." He sat back, perched on a barstool. He and Face had been sitting up, bored and tired but not sleepy. It was two in the morning, and their first mission for Stockwell was over and done, credited to their account.

Face's amusement faded. "You seem kinda down. What's wrong?"

"Tired, I guess." Murdock shrugged, searching in his mind for some description of how he felt. It was an odd feeling, being _free_. Free to do what he pleased, go where he wanted…yeah, it was downright terrifying.

"Y'know, ever since you got out of the VA, you've seemed different."

Murdock feigned levity. "I've always been _different_." His attempt fell flat, however. Face studied him, concerned.

"No. That's not what I mean. You're quieter. Calmer. It's a lot to get used to, you know. I'm used to bizarre streams of consciousness…diatribes…monologues…imitations, flashes of brilliance in a cloudless sky of inspired lunacy. You know what I mean. You're different."

"What's wrong with being different? Maybe I got tired of all that. Maybe I _am_ tired of all that." He thought again of what Bridget had told him. _Grow up_. He spun the glass again. Hannibal and B.A. had long ago gone up to bed, exhausted. Face yawned, intimating that he was getting tired himself and ready to turn in. Murdock didn't feel like sleeping. He was keyed up, edgy, but strangely not at all manic. He hadn't been manic in a long time, and sometimes _that_ scared him. Sure, the pills helped. They had always helped. But somehow, everything _was_ different.

"Well…it's just a little…eh…disconcerting. The Great Pretender has abandoned his throne, huh? I always knew you were just pretending, Murdock. I never thought you were…hm…_completely_ crazy."

Murdock started. Suddenly, he felt offended at being judged even slightly crazy. He spun the glass harder and it flew off the bar and smashed to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. He looked at Face, eyes dark and glittering, and Face had a sudden and fearful memory of a day back in Nam, when he had seen his friend truly angry. His eyes had been black with fury then, and though they didn't have quite that darkness now, it was still something to be feared. And respected.

"Hey, I meant no offense," Face said, holding up his hands. Murdock got another glass and poured himself a shot of bourbon. "You're drinking?"

"I feel like a little drinky-poo," Murdock muttered. He took a sip of the stuff and felt it burn all the way down his throat and into his stomach, where it sat like that black dog of his depression. Churchill had called it that – the black dog. It came to Murdock's back door more often than he liked. He still had prescriptions for certain meds, and they helped, but no pill could keep that dog away all the time.

Face knew when to quit. Murdock's eyes were still a shade darker than they should be. He got up. "I think I'll turn in, buddy. See ya 'round. You gonna stay here tonight?"

"No. Gonna walk home."

Face frowned. That wasn't good. Murdock lived in a miserable little double-wide about three blocks from the house, and Face still couldn't figure out why he wouldn't stay at the house. "I'll get one of the Able's to drive you."

"I can walk." There was a glint in Murdock's eye that told Face to drop it. The lieutenant knew he should, but he was starting to worry.

"Are you sure, Murdock?"

The coldness left Murdock's eyes then. He frowned, put the glass down, and nodded. He pushed away from the bar and stood. "Yes. I'm sure. See ya." He grabbed his jacket and started toward the door. Face was heading upstairs. "Hey…listen…it's okay. I'm okay." He gave his friend his best smile, but it didn't reach his eyes at all, and Face's expression remained concerned.

Face nodded just the same, knowing it wasn't time to push it. "I'm glad to hear that. Stay that way, will you?"

"Sure. I'll stay that way. Promise. Cross my heart and hope to…hope not to die! I got a least fifty years to go, eh?"

Face smiled, and watched Murdock leave before going upstairs.

Walking home in the moonlight, Murdock searched the skies for familiar constellations, and began identifying them one by one. He could fly by night. A nurse back in Nam had asked him how he flew by night when it was cloudy, and he had been stumped for a second. The controls, stupid. Artificial horizon. Know where you're going and you'll get there, every time. But he didn't like artificial anything. He still preferred to fly by the stars. Go _above_ the clouds, if you can. If you're flying over the sea, follow the ships' wakes. If you're over enemy waters, turn off the cabin lights and follow the foam until you see land again. Know the tides, look for familiar landmarks, and listen for the _woosh_ of enemy rockets. Climb as high as you can, then turn off the engines and _drop_ when the missiles come at ya. When there's no runway, go find a (preferably empty) road. Don't rush things, don't bother with the flaps unless you know how to use 'em, and mind your descent speed – you'll be fine.

Lessons learned, he thought. The ones he'd had to take, in flight school, had been so easy, so simple. His instructors had been astounded by Murdock, but flying was as easy for him as breathing. In fact, he knew he breathed better and felt better at the stick of a chopper or at the yoke of a plane. Any plane. As a boy, he had been fascinated by the flight of birds and of the wingless flight of horses. Cars didn't interest him at all – he found them dull and uninspired, and thought the human race had lost something beautiful when it parted ways with the equine in favor spontaneous combustion and its noise and stink and cheap speed. There was nothing like the speed of a good horse or an airplane, or a falcon on the thermals, looking for prey.

The only compensation, with not having horses, was flight. His grandfather had had a few horses on the farm, and Murdock had no trouble learning to ride, even on that crazy half-Thoroughbred filly Al had bought at an auction in South Texas. Barely six years old, he had jumped up on her back, and she had ceased bucking and trotted around the corral, Murdock natural and relaxed, easily understanding her controls and her rhythm, and he'd just let her fly. Emma had been terrified, thinking he'd surely fall off and bonk his fool head, as she'd said, but he had just galloped by, laughing, closer to the sky than he'd ever been before. No lessons required. Just ride.

He looked up at the sky. That filly had died years ago, of colic. Al had cried when he'd had to shoot her, but it had been the merciful thing to do. _Crash and burn- the good ones always do, son_.

After just a few lessons, long ago, Murdock only had to sit in the cockpit of the most complicated fighter jet for a moment to see how it all worked and _zoom_, away he'd go. _Easy peasy, General Squeezy_, he thought with a laugh. Russian helicopter? Sweet! Russian fighter jet? Instead of frightening and complicated, with Cyrllic letters that he didn't completely get (his Russian had always been a little _iffy_), it had been a beauty – love at first sight, and he had been surprised that a country that couldn't even make decent shoes could create such a thing.

Shaking his head at his own wide-ranging thoughts, he walked on, checking his mailbox and finding nothing whatsoever. Why should he expect anything? He had left no forwarding address at the VA, and had no living relatives that he really cared to hear from anyway.

He wondered if he was doing the right thing. It had seemed like the best thing at the time, he thought. He looked up and was surprised to see he was already home – if one could call it that. The double wide was the color of mud on the outside and inside it had, at first, smelled like feet. A lot of Lysol and PineSol had helped a lot, then he'd removed the carpet – which smelled like cat piss – and found the flooring to be clean but equally unattractive linoleum – the color of bird crap. Didn't matter. It was a place to sleep. He was taking odd jobs, to keep up proper pretenses, and reading the stock pages. Hannibal would probably think that was funny, and Face would want tips. B.A. would be astounded, and Frankie would ask for a loan.

Going inside, he flopped down on his couch and looked up at the light fixture, which as far as he was concerned was only slightly less attractive than a urinal at Grand Central. Ought to change that, he told himself. Ought to change a lot of things. Change your life.

Change your loneliness.

He frowned. He searched for the remote and turned on the TV. _Bonanza_. He had always loved TV, because it was the sound of another voice in the house. B.A. frequently barked at him about having the TV on all the time, but that big ugly mudsucker didn't understand what it was like to be _alone_. Probably never would. Good for him, Murdock thought. He stretched out on the couch, hugging a pillow, and watched as the map of the Ponderosa caught fire and the Cartwrights galloped into view. Everything was easy on TV.

Murdock fell asleep, dreaming about horses flying Russian fighter jets, and Little Joe Cartwright telling him that Xerox was up three points.


	5. Chapter 5

This is kind of a filler, to move the plot along. Not the best thing I've ever written, and what with a problem with my eye and a headache, I'm not entirely sure what I'm writing! (The boa constrictor story was inspired by a routine by Bill Engvall, in case you're wondering).

**FLUFFY? REALLY?**

"I hate just bein' a passenger," Murdock complained to no one in particular.

Face looked at his friend, relieved to hear the Texas drawl finally making its presence known. The British accent of Logan Ross had gotten on his nerves more than a few times, and he studied Murdock for a moment, hoping he was back to himself now. The flight from Monte Carlo was going to be long enough without having to endure that suave persona…particularly since Logan Ross had made James Bond seem about as interesting as vanilla pudding.

"Must be pretty boring, huh?" he offered. Hannibal had told Face to get Murdock's mind off the monotony of the flight and find something to talk about. Yeah, I know, Face thought with a barely suppressed grin. Keep Murdock occupied, so he'll forget everything that needs forgetting and concentrate on what needs to be known. "So that little blonde on Prince James's yacht – quite a looker, huh?"

Murdock shrugged, and pushed away his dissatisfaction. It had been a fairly uncomplicated affair, yet he still felt ashamed of himself. They had had just two days remaining in Monte Carlo and he had spent most of that time with Julie, and mostly in his hotel room. He raised the shade and looked out at the wing, miserable that he was already having a hard time remembering what she even looked like. What was he becoming? He glanced at Face. Good Lord, I hope I don't end up like that. I love Face – he's like a brother to me - but I don't want to be like that. A player. Sooner or later, you get played.

"Of course, I'm sure you've broken a heart or two in the past," Face prodded. He had never really asked Murdock about that part of the pilot's life, but ever since he'd been locked out on that balcony, drenched by rain and shivering, he had been wondering just what kind of past Murdock really had. Of course, he had also attempted to strangle Murdock, but he was calmer now.

"A couple." Murdock continued to gaze out the window, and did his best to not think about Bridget Monroe. He hadn't thought of any other woman since leaving the VA. The fling with whatsername…Jordain's girlfriend…had been out of duty, but practically mechanical. Julie had been a means of getting rid of Ross, and she hadn't required that much _thought_, which really depressed him. He had apologized to her before he'd left, and he hadn't liked seeing her tears. In fact, he hated himself for them.

"Ah, come on, man. You're a good lookin' guy, and smarter than most, so any woman would find you rather interesting. Bewildering, too, but interesting. All you need is some self-confidence. Armani, too, but confidence goes a long way. And I mean confidence as _yourself_, buddy. Not somebody else."

Murdock gave him a cold glare. Face faltered, his smile fading. This wasn't the Murdock he knew.

"What's wrong, Murdock? What's going on in that head of yours?"

At first, Murdock thought he had just imagined the question. But he saw the concern in Face's expression, and sighed. "I don't know. Ever since I left the VA…listen, have you ever started something but could see no way at all of it ever being finished? Or…or started something and wished you could carry on with it, but knew you couldn't because it would ruin everything?"

"Well…" Face cast about. "There was that Mongolian barbecue I tried once, but it was really best that I stopped entirely. Spontaneous human combustion isn't pretty." He waited a beat, expecting Murdock's mood to lighten, but that didn't happen. "Seriously, Murdock…something happened? Back at the VA? Did…wait, did something happen? Did somebody hurt you? A woman?" He blurted the question out before he could stop himself. He felt the same as B.A. and Hannibal about Murdock – if anybody ever harmed the guy, they'd introduce that person to a world of hurt. Face remembered how miserable Murdock had been after things had ended with Kelly – it had taken him months to really recover, and that had been a mutual agreement. How much worse would this one be?

"No, no," Murdock looked out the window again. "No. Something…could have happened. Maybe should have happened, or would have happened, if there hadn't been certain factors and circumstances involved that made what should have happened…almost happened, I think…impossible to happen and…" He ground to a halt. "It's all right, though," he said, giving Face a weary smile. "Back to usual. All's well."

Face didn't believe Murdock at all. He felt a bit of turbulence and wished Murdock was up in the cockpit, running the show, and possibly singing "Blues for Dixie" over the intercom, as he had done once as they had flown south over the Mason-Dixon line, after a hard job in New York. But he had enough sense to not push things now, when Murdock seemed so down. "Hey, how 'bout a hand of…er…poker?"

Murdock smiled for the first time since they'd left Monaco. "You know I'll beat you. I always beat you."

Face didn't care. He fumbled for the cards in his pocket and dealt them out. He glanced across the aisle at Hannibal, whose expression was grave. He gave Face a searching look, and he could only shrug helplessly. Hannibal frowned and glanced over at B.A., who was sleeping soundly, the effects of a potent pill keeping him quiet through the long flight, before returning to his newspaper. He was bored and annoyed at not being allowed to smoke.

"Face, I can't remember…what do they call people from Monaco again? Monan…Monaqueg…oh, t'hell with it. Just call 'em 'people from Monaco'. I'll look it up. Use it against you Scrabble some day."

"This from a guy who used the word 'et'," Face grinned. "And they're called 'untaxed', as I recall."

"Right. And 'et' is a word. 'He _et_ his biscuit'. And I beat you pretty soundly, last time we played." Murdock was relieved to have put Face off the scent. He didn't want to talk about Bridget to anyone. Not now, and probably not ever. That was a memory he could carry around for himself, and bring out when he was alone and feeling sorry for himself. He would remember that black miniskirt and those legs…he shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Only in Texas, Murdock," Face shook his head. "And by the way, I'm glad Texas is _back_."

"Texas never left," Murdock answered. He put down his cards. Full house. Face slumped, defeated again, in more ways than one.

* * *

Bridget fumbled with her keys and dropped them. Cursing under her breath, she bent down to pick them up. She was trying to get the key into the hole when she sensed something was _wrong_. She looked around, but saw nothing around her. Not even the neighbor's cat. No rustling in the bushes. Nothing.

Stepping into her house, she switched on the porch light and looked out into her little flower-packed yard. The flowers all looked cheerful enough, even in the dark. Hydrangeas, peonies, poppies, coneflowers, plumbago – all her favorites, mixed with just about anything colorful that she had been able to keep alive. Geraniums hung in baskets from her front porch eaves. Pansies and impatiens grew in window boxes. A big windchime clanged gently in the breeze. It was late, and she was tired. The windchime would actually help her sleep.

In the kitchen, she greeted her canary, which hunched his shoulders and glared at her, the picture of hostility. "Psycho," she said. "Happy as a clam during the day and a complete nutter at night. What's with you?"

The canary only continued to seethe with rage at the sight of her. If he had had hands, would be giving her the finger. Yet during the day, when the sun was shining, he was as cheerful and happy as a bird could be, singing so loudly that the neighbors could even hear him. Bridget had inherited the bird – named Harvey – from her uncle, and had brought him all the way from Georgia to California. The bird was a flash of sunny yellow, full of energy at any time of the day. As she put away her groceries and cleaned up the kitchen, the bird forgot his rage and made his questioning little 'Beep?' and hopped from one end of his cage to the other.

"I really have no idea, Harvey."

There it was again. The sense that something was wrong. She looked around her kitchen, then glanced at the block of knives. None were missing. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. She turned the light off and stepped into the living room. She barely even had time to react when the gloved hand clapped onto her mouth, and as she struggled she prayed that it would be quick.

* * *

Murdock woke from a nightmare – one he couldn't quite remember, even seconds after it shocked him into full wakefulness – and scrambled out of his bed, panting with fear, looking around his room for some unseen enemy. But the walls were still bare. Only his bed, with his footlocker at the end, a bookshelf, a chest of drawers and himself occupied the room. No pictures were on the walls, which he had left stark white. Face had said the room lacked character. _Like I need character to sleep_, he thought as he sat down on the bed, rubbing his eyes. Besides, he had lived next to plenty of characters at the VA. Had learned quite a lot from some of them, but not decorating skills.

Padding into his living room/kitchen, he started laughing at himself. It was three in the morning. He was in his boxer shorts, and noted that he was still as thin as a rail. He could eat like Secretariat, but he still looked like a greyhound. The doctors at the VA had pronounced Murdock to be blessed with extremely high metabolism, and had also discovered that he had a rare 'horseshoe' kidney – instead of two, he had one big kidney. He couldn't gain weight even when he scarfed down several burgers and milkshakes and anything else he could get his hands on. It was all jet fuel, and burned quickly. There were few things Murdock wouldn't eat, save truffles (which tasted like socks, to him) and mushrooms (which tasted like hell's victuals), and now he was looking hopefully into his refrigerator, wishing something would materialize there. But there was nothing but a half-gallon of milk, a few slices of bacon, some rather _aged_ pressed ham and some medication he had to take daily.

Miserable, he smacked the fridge shut and looked around the dark kitchen. Funny, but even during his darkest periods of depression and mania, he had never feared the dark. He imagined sometimes that he could see better in the dark, actually. To disprove this fancy, however, he smacked his shin against a lower cabinet door that refused to stay closed and yelped with pain. He slammed it shut, but it opened again, and after a few moments of banging and cursing colorfully, he gave up and hobbled out of the kitchen.

Knowing sleep wasn't going to happen, he flopped down onto his couch and switched the TV on. An old John Wayne movie was on – _Stagecoach_. He nodded his approval at the programmers and settled in. Looking around the room, dimly illuminated by the flickering television screen, he remembered a date he'd gone on – a date arranged by Face, whom he had forgotten to kill– where the room had been this dark, until the girl had returned from putting on something 'more comfortable', turned the lights on and revealed herself in a white teddy, with an albino boa constrictor hanging around her neck.

"Who," he asked the dark room. "Who names a boa constrictor _Fluffy_?"

Murdock hadn't cared how much he'd been drinking that night. He had driven himself home, wishing in his inebriated state that the car was a horse with a good homing instinct. The girl – he had forgotten her name – had told him not to freak out, that it was cool. She had informed him that Fluffy - the snake - could wrap around them while they made love. Murdock had responded, as he headed toward the door, "No he can't. 'Cause I'll kill 'im."

He wondered where thoughts about that came from. Maybe his nightmare had been about a snake. A snake in an expensive suit and sunglasses, who was using him and his friends to achieve some undoubtedly nefarious goal. Murdock stretched out on the couch and watched a bunch of cowboys shoot at each other, thinking that the reason the Old West looked so rough and rugged was because it was riddled with bullet holes from gunfights involving cowboys and bad guys with six shooters that could hold five thousand bullets.

Sleep was taking over again. He shifted into a more comfortable position and was just starting to drift away, soft pale skin against his own, a skein of red hair falling across his chest, when his phone started ringing, loud and insistent. Murdock sat up, mumbling to himself about how he never even got any in his freaking _sleep_, and snatched up the receiver. "What?"

"Murdock? Get over to the house. Now." It was Hannibal. The line went dead.

"And a chipper mornin' to you, too, Colonel," Murdock replied, hanging up. He went into his room and dressed. On the way out, he switched off John Wayne in mid-sentence (the Duke would _not_ have appreciated that) and began trotting toward the house, becoming more and more eager for something to do as he neared the place. Anything to get his mind off heavily-armed cowboys and boa constrictors.


	6. Chapter 6

FLY ME TO THE MOON

**Author**: AlyshebaFan

By the way, even though I've gotten to six chapters now, I should point out that I do not own The A-Team and am only writing this series as an exercise and for fun and am making no profits, blah blah blah copyrightcakes.

**Rating: K+ **(some language, and a vaguely off-color joke, or if you have no sense of humor, a downright offensive joke)

**Summary**: Bridget is angry and scared. Murdock throws a tomato at Face, who deserves it.

* * *

Bridget had never been so afraid in her entire life.

It still was a surprise to her that she was even alive. She had expected to be murdered, but whoever had grabbed her from her house last night had knocked her out with chloroform and put her in a car. She had been unconscious for some time, she figured, and thus had no idea what direction her abductor had taken her, or where she was now. No one spoke to her, and she could hear nothing around her.

With nothing to do but either go into a full-blown panic or try to stay calm by thinking, she chose the latter. She thought about James and how boring he was. She thought about her years at college and her hospital rotation and that turn she had taken in the emergency room – she had watched the birth of a baby, and the only really clear memory of _that_ had been the sight of bright lights, a lot of blood, and of linoleum rushing toward her forehead. Miracle, schmiracle, she thought. Does that include all the stuff that comes out _after_ the baby?

Almost hysterical, denying that she was panicking again, Bridget took slow, deep breaths. She forced herself to focus on something else – anything else. She finally caught hold of the first vaguely pleasant thing to come into her mind, namely being kissed by HM Murdock, and how good that had felt. Far better than when James kissed her, which had always made her think of Georgia Satellite's "Keep Your Hands to Yourself". Her mother would have been proud to know that she had never succumbed to a _Yankee_.

She was startled from her thoughts by a voice. Distinctly male, unfamiliar. "Think we should check on her – make sure she's okay?"

"Yeah. The boss said he wants us to call in soon anyway. He'll want to know if she's in good condition."

"Oh, she's in good condition all right."

Bridget rolled her eyes. Why were men so _stupid_?

What sounded like cabinet doors being opened startled her, and she was even more stunned when she found herself looking up at two men wearing ski masks standing over her. She was indeed being kept in a metal office cabinet, laid out on the floor of what she was able – after her eyes adjusted to the light – to assess to be some kind of warehouse.

"Comfy?"

She was lying on pillows. Her hands and ankles were bound by what seemed like silk neckties. She wished she wasn't gagged, because otherwise she would have spat on them both. "Hmphmgh."

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," said the larger of the two men. After her feet were unbound, she was hauled to her feet and allowed to stand on the pillow, blinking and wondering what they were going to do next. If they were going to kill her, they would have done that back at her house, she rationalized hopefully. If they wanted to rape her, that could have been accomplished with far greater ease while she was unconscious, and looking at her two captors she suspected that putting forth a great deal of effort and energy was not on the top of their lists of Fun Things to Do.

"Get her something to eat. Boss wants her to look right. He'll be here tonight." The smaller man looked at his watch and frowned.

"And she'd damn' well better look right. Boss'll kill us if she's got a scratch on her."

Oh, God, Bridget thought. So I'm being sold into white slavery. I'll end up cooking for some sweaty revolutionary general in South America, and will be forced to satisfy his depraved needs. He'll have sweatstains under his arms – how attractive – and will smoke huge cigars that smell like sick donkeys. That'll just _ruin_ my complexion, she thought, and almost got lost in the hysterical hilarity of the entire situation. Looking at her two captors, and thinking of her miserable future, she was worrying about her _complexion_? Maybe she had been working in the psych hospital too long…

"Go on and get some burgers. Got any preferences, missy?" the bigger man asked as his companion left. He was holding what looked like an AK-47. She had no idea. Despite growing up amongst people who either shot it, stuffed it or married it, she had no familiarity with guns or weapons of any kind. He finally undid the gag and she coughed a little before glaring at him.

"A murder-suicide pact between you and your friend would suit me to a _T_," she snapped.

He snickered and took a seat in a broken office chair. Bridget looked around the room and staggered over to another chair and sat down. The big kidnapper – whom she dubbed Tweedle Dum – cradled his machine gun and studied her. She leveled a haughty gaze back at him.

"Boss'll be real pleased. A right pretty little piece, you are."

She rolled her eyes and looked around the room for weapons. She had seen a Kung Fu movie where the hero had used everything that wasn't nailed down to defend himself, but unfortunately all the metal cabinets were closed tight, and the one she'd been laid in was only full of pillows. There were no other office supplies – just a desk, some other broken chairs, and a glass-topped table supported by – surely not…yes, indeed – four faux ivory elephants. That thing would make a Mafia wife wince. _Tacky_.

Bridget examined her captor carefully. He had a mustache, dull blue eyes, a wide face with a red, bulbous nose that smacked of a lifetime of alcoholism, no chin to speak of, and a middle-age paunch. She estimated him to be roughly six feet tall, but his shoulders were narrow and he was slightly stooped. He wore his graying hair in a comb-over, in the 'spider attacking a boiled egg' style that so complicated men his age who suffered from male pattern baldness. She was determined to memorize her other abductor just as well, in case she managed to escape and would need to give a description to the police…or at least to her brothers, who would hunt these two down like dogs and kill them in the street.

"Doncha got no questions?"

He can't even speak proper English, she thought. She only lifted her chin and fixed him with a cool glare. He finally looked away.

"Don't worry, honey. We ain't gonna hurt ya. You're what they call a _great_ commodity." He grinned at his own private joke and sat back in his chair.

Bridget was forgetting to be afraid. Instead, she was starting to get _angry_. Angry that two good-for-nothings and their Boss had kidnapped her and were causing her such inconvenience. She had several appointments tomorrow morning. Her canary was probably out of water by now. She was supposed to be going up to San Diego, to the Coronado Hotel of all places, for a conference on abnormal sexuality. She had planned to attend one speech (_Sexual Dysfunction in the Middle-Aged Male_, which she was sure would be a real thigh-slapper) and then go ghost-hunting – there was allegedly a ghost of a murdered girl wandering the place, and Bridget had always been fascinated with the supernatural. She had even booked the room where the girl was seen most. Now, she was going to miss it! She could almost feel steam coming out of her ears.

The bigger man came back, laden with sacks of fast food. Bridget's hands were unbound, but to her disgust the smaller man tied her feet together again, which meant she couldn't jump up and run away. To where, she wondered. To what? She had no idea where she was, or what was outside the warehouse. And she was hungry. A cheeseburger, fries and a cup of soda were put on a coffee table in front of her, and after sniffing all three items suspiciously, she tucked into her meal. The cheeseburger was bland, the fries were soggy and the soda was more carbonated water than syrup, but it was better than nothing, and Bridget had a strong feeling that a whole of nothing lay ahead for her. She blinked back tears as she thought about never seeing her parents or her big, dopey brothers again, or her friends from back home and the friends she had made at work.

She thought about Captain Murdock again, which seemed to happen a lot, and usually at the most inopportune moments. Like when she had gone on her last date with James, for instance. He had been droning on about some some dreadful procedure involving botuli and how it would kill facial muscles and make it easier to stretch the skin, thus making a person look years younger and himself thousands of dollars richer, and the whole time, Bridget had been thinking about dark, expressive eyes, quick intelligence and a Texas drawl.

Bridget wondered where he was, and what he was doing. Probably kicking back on a beach chair, a blonde at his elbow, drinking mai-tais and turning on the charm. She could see him doing that. He was probably having a grand old time.

She missed him horribly now.

* * *

"I am not a happy camper here!" Murdock shouted. B.A. had fallen on him, which hadn't been part of Hannibal's big plan. He was gasping for breath now, and considered a discussion with the big guy about his obsession with gold jewelry, but that was only if he survived. "In fact, I might be a dead camper soon! Get him off me, dammit!" he wheezed.

Face and Frankie were struggling to pull B.A. off the pilot. Hannibal was holding the hypodermic needle, which had contained the concoction necessary for putting Baracus out for this flight to California, and looked concerned enough, but there was a definite twinkle of amusement in his eyes.

"Two hu-hundred fif-fity p-pounds," Face gasped between clenched teeth. "And at least fifty are g-gold ch-chains!" One last desperate, hernia-inducing heave and B.A. finally rolled off Murdock and lay in a lightly snoring heap beside him. Murdock checked himself for broken ribs and sat up, readjusting his baseball cap, and thought about the last time anybody had rolled off him. Hawaii, he remembered. And that was hell of a lot more fun than this. And it didn't involve a big, ugly mudsucker who had only moments before threatened to strangle him.

"Good thing the drug took effect before he could get his fingers around your neck, Murdock," Hannibal pointed out helpfully. That got him a cold look from Murdock, but he only shrugged. "Come on. Plane's ready." His discomfort forgotten, Murdock scrambled to his feet and bounced up into the plane, injuries forgotten.

"What are we doing again?" Frankie asked as they began the onerous task of picking B.A. up and hauling him aboard the jet. "You know, we should invest in a forklift." Murdock, still a little breathless, was already heading toward the cockpit.

"Stockwell is sending us to California. We're rescuing a kidnapping victim," Hannibal informed him.

"And the FBI couldn't do this because…?"

Frankie is always so damned practical, Murdock thought as he did a quick engine check. Everything looked good. Nice little plane, too, even if it was cramped. Stockwell couldn't have provided something a little bigger? He began whistling, and glanced up at Face, who sat down in the co-pilot's chair beside him. Murdock had been trying to teach the conman how to fly recently, and Face looked eager for another lesson.

Hannibal's answer to Frankie was lost in the noise of the engine starting up. B.A. was slumped in a seat in the back, dead to the world. Frankie strapped himself in across the aisle from Hannibal. Murdock was in his element, flipping switches and whistling happily. Face watched him, knowing he was already getting behind. For Murdock, flying a plane – or anything made for flight, and sometimes even things not meant for flight – was like breathing. For Face, it was going to take careful study.

"Okeedokee, daddy-o, welcome to Miracle Airlines, where Lady Luck is your co-pilot. Well, actually, Faceman is the co-pilot, but let's face it, he's not a bad-looking guy, but he's an awfully ugly woman. Everybody please make sure you are in a full, upright position and that your seatbelts are locked." Murdock grinned. "Please don't be alarmed if suddenly the plane takes an upside-down position, as the pilot is feeling frisky."

"Murdock…" Face said warningly. "Please don't."

That got another cold look. But Murdock tamped down his enthusiasm and began taxiing down the runway. Face relaxed in his seat and let the pilot run through the process of taking off. He gripped the arms of his seat as the plane defied gravity and smoothly slipped into the cloudless sky, heading toward the setting sun. Murdock hit a proper altitude and settled back and relaxed. He flipped on the intercom once they were flying level. "I got great story for y'all…"

Frankie rolled his eyes. Face grinned.

"Three little boys find a five dollar bill," Murdock started. "They debate what they're gonna do with the money. First little boy says, 'Let's buy some candy'. Other little boys say, 'We can't do that. It'll rot our teeth, ruin our suppers and our mamas'll kill us'. So the second little boy says, 'Let's go'the movies!' Other little boys say, 'We can't do that. It costs two bucks apiece to get in, and there's three of us. One of us wouldn't be able to go'. Finally, the third little boy says, 'Let's buy same tampons'. The other little boys say, 'What?' The little boy says, 'Yeah. With tampons, you can go swimming, horse-back riding, play tennis…'."

Frankie snickered. Hannibal snorted. B.A. kept snoring, more loudly now. Face giggled. "You should try stand-up, Murdock."

"Nah. I get the shakes in front of audiences." Murdock checked his altitude and began humming "Fly Me to the Moon". "And then I imagine everybody in their skivvies and I can't stop laughing myself."

"I had a dream once," Face said, "Where I was doing a standup routine and I had a heckler." He glared at Murdock. "It was _you_, in fact."

"Really? You dream about l'il ol' me?" Murdock grinned.

"More of a nightmare. You threw a tomato at me."

"Prob'ly deserved it, Faceman," Murdock waggled the wings of the plane, and B.A.'s head rolled back and forth on his shoulders. Hannibal gave him a warning look.

"Ruined a perfectly good suit," Face continued. "And I was good, as I recall. By the way, Hannibal, did Stockwell happen to mention _who_ we're rescuing in California?"

"Some doctor," Hannibal shrugged. "I don't care who it is."

"Why's that?" Murdock asked, confused.

"Well, you know what comes at the end of a sentence?"

"A…period?"

"No, Murdock. _Parole_. We'll get our parole, and a full pardon and we can get on with our lives, living out in the open." He started to light a cigar, but Murdock turned and gave him a sharp look. He sighed and looked around for a magazine. Nothing in the seat pockets. Frankie handed him _Soldier of Fortune_ magazine. "No _Playboy_?"

"Sorry. Forget 'em."

"Hrmph." Hannibal started reading. Frankie settled in for a nap. Murdock watched a flock of birds fly by and signaled for Face to switch seats. The conman frowned, looking uneasy.

"It'll be all right. I'll watch for flying buffalos. Hey, dja see that _Twilight Zone_ movie? The little sky demon on the wing? Wasn't that _cool_?"

"Murdock…" Face said, taking a deep breath to settle his nerves.

"Well, I thought it was cool. 'Course, in another time, in another life, I'd've gone after the little bugger m'self. But not now. It would be irrational, shooting a hole through a passenger jet window and attacking a demon on the wing. How silly. You don't kill those little bastards with guns."

Face, falling into Murdock's trap, glanced at him. "How _do_ you kill them?"

"Barry Manilow. "Mandy" does a right tol'able job, I hear."

Face cackled and checked his altitude. Murdock settled back in the co-pilot's seat, relaxing and watching the sky. He thought about this trip to California, and wondered briefly if he would get a chance to make a brief visit to the VA, to see Brid-…Dr Monroe. If only to just glimpse her. There were dangers in that notion, but he was only human and he liked being tempted sometimes.


	7. Chapter 7

**Title**: Pickets

Part 7

**Author**: AlyshebaFan

**Rating**: K+

* * *

Stockwell always provided the accommodations, where the men went, and this time the place was a doozy – a fleabag motel just outside some little town Murdock had never heard of. He could have sworn he saw cockroaches picketing in protest to the poor sanitary conditions. Murdock and Face were sequestered in what had, at some far distant time in the past, been called the April in Paris Suite. "Yeah, April in Paris. Bathrooms – Calcutta in July," Frankie grumbled.

After hauling a still-sleeping B.A. onto a bed in one of the two rooms they would be using and taking a couple of pain-killers, Murdock and Face went in search of something to eat. The finally came across a miserable place that had, at one time, been a Dairy Queen but was now called The Moo-Cow Malt Shop. Murdock ordered a cheeseburger and fries, and muttered that it was easily the most uninspired burger he had ever eaten. He began attempting to build a log cabin with his French fries, but they were too soggy and floppy to be useful in that endeavor. He gave up and gazed out the window, bored. It was boiling hot outside, so that the blacktop road looked hazy in the sunlight, and the smell of melting tar irritated everyone.

Face was getting alarmed. Murdock bored was Murdock looking for something to alleviate the boredom. He was like a crow – far too smart for common things, and liable to get himself into trouble in his quest to find entertainment. He was using the paper liner of their tray to make an airplane (after having completed the kiddie puzzle and the connect-the-dots, resulting in a vaguely demonic-looking clown, which made Murdock flinch with alarm when he recognized what he'd drawn). Face watched, fascinated, as his friend transformed ordinary paper into a graceful, perfectly aerodynamic glider. He aimed it and, before Face could stop him, let it sail smoothly onto the table of two surly looking men several tables away. The men looked at them, annoyed.

"Play in your own yard, Murdock," Face said, _sotto voce_.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" one of the men asked Murdock.

"Oh, you'd need a whole encyclopedia of modern psychology to answer that question," Murdock answered in his laziest Southern drawl. He tugged the brim of his cap down a little lower. "Did you know that your head looks like a spider attacking a boiled egg?"

Silence.

Boiled-Egghead got up and stalked over to their table, hands on his hips.

Face grimaced and prepared himself for a fight. He'd have to step in, most likely, to protect Murdock. Then again, Murdock had a unique way of defending himself when the odds were clearly against him. Face remembered an incident in Saigon, when the pilot had been set upon by _five_ huge, angry Marines that Murdock had insulted by saying they looked like the southern ends of a herd of northbound donkeys. Instead of countering their attack with aggression, he had thrown himself onto his back, began paddling his arms and legs in the air and screaming at the top of his lungs, sounding a great deal like a siren. The effect had been spectacular – the Marines had backed away, alarmed, and finally left the bar as a disconcerted body, unable to handle _that_ kind of strategy. Murdock had hopped back to his feet, ordered another beer, and resumed eating peanuts, as if nothing had happened.

"Uh…he…uh…" Face began. The larger man stood and stalked over to their table. Face put on his best smile, but Murdock shrugged, apparently completely unconcerned. "Listen, it's…he's…crazy." Murdock's eyebrow lifted. Face looked chagrined and took another tack. "Uh…he has a condition where, sometimes, he just blurts out things…"

Murdock rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like the truth, for instance. That's why I could never be a politician. One minute, you're kissing a baby, the next you're telling the mother that you'll be happy to get a banana for her monkey."

Face leaned toward him and hissed, "Are you trying to get us both _killed_?"

"Oh, please, this guy is about as threatening as a French mime." Murdock took a sip of his Coke and winced. "Terrible. All carbon, no syrup. _Yech_."

Boiled-Egghead finally realized that attacking a clearly crazy person was not useful, or maybe he just decided it would do nothing to improve his reputation. He finally stalked away and sat down with his friend. Murdock sat back in his seat and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He watched as Face tried to pull himself back together. The conman shook his head, adding this to his ever-growing list of things he would never understand about Captain H.M. Murdock. He had attempted, at least twice, to get Murdock to really tell him if he was actually crazy, or if it really was all just an act. Sometimes, Face was absolutely certain he was completely unbalanced, but that whole notion would get thrown out the window when Murdock was say or do something completely rational.

Today was not that day, though. Face had resolved, lately, to get Murdock good and drunk and con him into spilling his entire story. He had no doubt it would be fascinating.

"Hey…are you okay?" Face finally asked him. Murdock reached for Face's tray liner, but Face slapped his hand away. "No way!"

"I'm okay," Murdock shrugged.

"What was that all about, then?"

"I dunno. An urge, I guess. Lookin' for adventure…_whatever comes my way_… By the way…" Murdock scratched the back of his neck, a sign that Face knew very well – the pilot was uneasy. "How long are we gonna be here? Did Hannibal ever say?"

"Couple days, I think."

"Oh. That's…that's good." Murdock squinted out at the torturous sunlight. "I was thinkin'…I was thinkin' that maybe I'd go pay a visit to the VA. I…uh…I have some friends down there that I'd like to see."

"Oh?" Face noted Murdock's guarded expression, but couldn't put a finger on what was going on in his friend's head. He ran through the list of Murdock's past dalliances that he knew about – the list was not long, which had always seemed odd to Face – and wondered… "Wanting to pay a visit to a pretty little nurse down there?"

"No, no…" Murdock shook his head, refusing to meet his eye. "Just a friend, Faceman. Just a…uh…friend."

"But I'm guessing it's a woman. Somebody who could be more than just a friend, maybe?" Face grinned. "That's good. You deserve a little…you know…extra-curricular activity, buddy."

"It's not that. It…er…it's just…it's not that." He rubbed his face, and Face was disturbed to see him looking so uneasy. "N-Nothing happened," he said, with a pleading gesture, clearly hoping his friend would drop it.

"Oh! The thing that didn't happen but should have happened. It almost happened, but it couldn't happen because it shouldn't have happened…'cause it would have ruined everything?" He grinned. Face wondered what she looked like – Murdock, he knew, had excellent taste in women. He always seemed to go for the classy ones with brains, rather than the bimbos. In fact, the pilot seemed to have great distaste for bimbos, and was quite old-fashioned. At times, Face had to admit that he envied Murdock a little in that regard. Even more, Face knew that that pretty little nurse back in Nam always left Murdock's quarters with a big smile on her face…

"Uh…what kind of desserts do they have here?" Murdock hopped out of the booth and headed to the counter, to peruse the menu. Face shrugged. He wanted a look at this girl, just the same. He sat back in his seat and picked up a newspaper and began reading the sports pages. He was only vaguely aware of the two men leaving the restaurant, after having ordered another cheeseburger combo. Only boredom made Face look up and watch them get into a white van and drive away, heading north. He went back to an article about a local sheep rancher who had trained his sheep to form into large letters on the sides of hills. One such strategic grouping had formed 'Will You Marry Me?' for a young man proposing to his girlfriend. "That'd take a lot of sheep," he muttered. "And lots of time on your hands." When Murdock returned, he handed the paper to him and pointed at the article.

"Yeah, but could he do that with chickens? Ever try to herd chickens?" Murdock shook his head. "Or cats. Damn near impossible."

"Could it be done with horses?" Face asked him, curious.

"Yeah. You can train a horse to do almost anything 'cept drive a car."

"No opposable thumbs would make driving somewhat difficult," Face conceded.

"Very true. Of course, I once attempted to get a conman to bet on the right horse in a certain race, and he refused and lost fifty bucks. Foolish, foolish man." Murdock grinned at him, and Face was relieved to see things getting back to normal. Murdock wasn't bored any more. All was right with the world, or at least until Murdock saw something shiny.

* * *

Bridget wished they'd at least let her take a shower. She knew she was starting to not _smell_ so great. Being locked up all day, inside a warehouse, was hardly conducive to good hygiene. She was allowed to use the tiny bathroom at the far end of the building when she needed to, but only under close supervision. Fortunately, they didn't insist on going in there with her, as she barely fit in the room by herself. She had searched the closet-sized bathroom for anything she could use as a weapon, but it was just a sink and a toilet, a roll of tissue and some hand soap. Not even a plunger.

Boredom had set in, after three days. She was to the point of thinking of words that started with certain letters of the alphabet. She was heavy into the D's now. _Danger_. _Death. Dastardly. Demonic. Dark. Deadly…Deviant._ She cursed her photographic memory – she had started reading dictionaries as a child, memorizing words and their meanings, and then encyclopedias. Her mother had once told her to try out for _Jeopardy_! but Bridget hadn't had time and Alex Trebek just irritated the hell out of her.

Oh, such cheery words, she thought. But she had little else to do with her time, which stretched out before her, like an endless road. A blue-ribbon highway, like the roads in Texas, that went on forever. That imagery depressed her, of course. She was going to be stuck somewhere, with no one out there having a clue where she was or what had happened to her. By now, her superiors at the VA would be wondering what had happened to her, as she was almost anal about being on time every day, and doing her work efficiently and with great diligence, often working overtime trying to help her patients overcome their problems. She had become well-liked in the VA psych ward, for her genuine concern for their well-being. Even the most disturbed patients had calmed down in her presence, and would even talk to her. But they weren't likely to realize that she was really missing until it was too late to do anything about it. She would be long gone before the police were alerted.

The Boss had come by, as planned, on her first day in the warehouse. He was a swarthy little man with a wart on his right cheek, only he bore little resemblance to John-Boy from _The Waltons_. Instead, he looked more like Che Guevara, only more disgusting and amoral, if that were possible. He had sleazed over to her, looked her over carefully with beady little black eyes and told Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee that they had picked just the right girl – she was perfect. He had leered at her for a few minutes before leaving.

Listening to the three men talk, from inside her cabinet, Bridget surmised that she was, indeed, being prepped for transport somewhere south of the border, perhaps to South America. She recalled having gone to Rio for Carnival a few years ago, and frankly had not been impressed – all the noise and stink and people routinely driving their cars into hotel lobbies had not been her idea of a great time, even at eighteen and her wildest. Of course, she had also not enjoyed a trip to Austria, where littering was punishable by death. Right now, she just wanted to be home. In her own bed, with the air conditioning on full blast, watching Johnny Carson.

Tears filled Bridget's eyes as she thought about her parents, for about the millionth time since she'd been abducted. She wasn't entirely sure she was going to get out of this, much less survive it. Generations of Southern pride, tradition and determination weren't going to help her escape from a sad fate.

_Depressing_.

Bridget let her tears fall then. As far as she was concerned, there was nothing that could be done. She was going to have to endure…and learn Spanish.

* * *

"That was too easy," B.A. said, taking a drink of milk and wiping his upper lip. "Stockwell could have rescued that guy with a toy gun and some wire clippers, all by himself."

"Well, the job's done and that's one more the record," Hannibal pointed out. "Just a few more to go and we're free." He sat back in the booth at the Moo Cow and lit his cigar. Face, sitting beside him, nodded in agreement. Murdock was trying to suck the contents of a chocolate milkshake through a straw, but the concoction was too thick and he was getting a little breathless. Frankie was connecting the dots on the kiddie puzzle of a tray liner, and looked alarmed when he saw the resulting clown.

"My God! Straight out of a Stephen King novel, man." He balled up the paper and threw it toward a trash can, but missed.

"Dr Pierce probably would have preferred not being covered with vegetable oil," Murdock pointed out. "I still don't quite get that part of the plan."

"It was a diversion," Hannibal nodded. "And it worked. Those slimeballs holding him for ransom didn't expect that. It's always the element of surprise, Murdock. Never underestimate it."

"Yeah…yeah, right." Murdock gave up on the straw and tried drinking the milkshake straight from the cup. He immediately got an ice cream headache. "Oh…by the way…I was thinkin' that before we headed back, I'd head down to L.A. for a few hours…visit a friend."

"Yeah," Face grinned. "An old buddy…he and Murdock played a lot of hoops together, right?"

Murdock glared at Face and drummed his fingers on the table. "Anyhow…can I borrow the car?"

"Sure. We'll lounge around at the roach motel." It was hard to tell if Hannibal was being sarcastic or not. But he was not one to begrudge Murdock having a _life_, much less friends outside the team. "Maybe we can test the pool water for diseases. There's probably a whole new strain of syphilis in there."

Stepping outside into the scorching sunlight, Murdock blinked and rubbed his forehead. But his heart was pounding. All he had dreamed about, or even thought about, for the past several hours was just getting a glimpse of Bridget Monroe. He doubted he'd even have the nerve to speak to her, but at least he'd be able to see her. Know she was all right, and doing well, and then he'd go his miserable way and get her out of his system for good.

"God, I'm such a friggin' masochist," Murdock muttered.

"A what?" B.A. asked, almost knocking into him, blinded by the sun. Murdock reeled a little from the impact but regained his balance and positioned himself so that his back was to the light. What, was this town a few miles closer to the sun?

"Masochist," Murdock answered grouchily. "A person who enjoys maltreatment."

B.A.'s expression was blank, so Murdock took another stab at it. "A masochist begs the sadist to beat him, but the sadist refuses."

"And you…enjoy being beaten?"

Murdock's shoulders sagged in defeat. B.A. was a good guy, if a little on the grumpy side, but he was not a deeply intellectual person, much less well-educated. "Not exactly. No." He turned and headed toward the car, squinting and hoping he could get to it before passing out in the heat. "I much prefer self-flagellation, thank you."


	8. Chapter 8

Part 8

**Title**: Accident

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan

* * *

It took almost the entire drive down to L.A. for the car too cool off enough to just barely be comfortable, and by that time Murdock and taken off his bomber jacket and was remembering excruciating summers in the Piney Woods of east Texas. Back home, you didn't so much breathe air as drink it, along with mosquitoes. Add chiggers, fire ants and no-see-ums to the mix and July through late September were pretty much hell on earth. Murdock was not hot-natured and could usually endure it fairly well by imagining himself in the Arctic, but his nervousness wasn't helping him at all.

He had decided that he wouldn't try to actually talk to Bridget. He'd just try and get a look at her. Slip into the VA, greet a couple of folks still residing at the facility that had become friends over the years, say hello to some of the staff, and then head down toward her office, wait around until she emerged from a session, hide behind something (what, a coat-rack?) and just see her. No touching. Just enjoy the view for a minute or two, and high-tail it back to that little town and get back on that plane and go back to Virginia.

He still wished he had planned that kiss goodbye a little better. It had been kind of an impulse, and Murdock knew he had little impulse control, if any. He was still inclined toward just acting on whatever came into his head, instead of carefully considering his options and the consequences. If he had _really_ thought it through, he would have waited until they were alone and dragged her into an empty room, damn the consequences. He had little doubt he would have done more than just kiss her. From the way she had reacted, he had little doubt that she would have been receptive. He wasn't sure how far it would have gone, but however far it _would_ have gone would have been a lot of fun, and a memory he would cherish forever.

Murdock hated Los Angeles. Hated the traffic and the smog. Hated the fact that virtually every waiter was carrying a portfolio or a script. Getting around the city was hard, and by the time he got to the VA, he could certainly understand why somebody would end up committed there, after fighting congestion like that. He turned off the car, felt the relentless heat of summer, and got out, blinking in the cruel sunlight. He put on his bomber jacket, slapped his cap back on and strolled up to the front doors.

First thing he noticed was a policeman standing at the front desk, taking notes. "When was the last time you saw her?" he was asking Regina, who raised her head and looked surprised when she saw Murdock.

"A…uh…three days ago. We thought maybe she had been sick or something – some kind of sudden illness, y'know, or maybe she had to go home on short notice. But we called her house yesterday and there was no answer, and so the chief of the psychiatric department went to her house and she wasn't there."

"So does this happen a lot, with Dr Monroe? She just…disappears?" The policeman glanced at Murdock, who had moved to his side when he heard who they were talking about.

"No, that's not like her at all. Thank God Dr Phelps was able to get into her house, because her poor canary had no water at all…but…we're all really worried now. She's so nice, and everybody here likes her so much…" The nurse looked as though she would start crying.

The police officer's walkie-talkie squawked and another officer's voice came through. "No signs of struggle here, Mitchell, but the back door was apparently forced open."

Murdock stared, bewildered, at Regina, who gestured to him. "Dr Monroe is missing!" she stage-whispered. "We're all so worried…why are you here? Have you heard something? Do you know anything about it?"

He ignored her and addressed the policeman. "When did this happen?"

"Who're you?"

"Captain H.M. Murdock. US Army…retired…I guess." He resisted the urge to say 'CIA' instead. He wasn't sure if that would really have helped.

"Are you a resident here?" The policeman opened his notebook again and began writing.

"No…I'm a friend of hers. When did she disappear?" Murdock asked, covering his growing alarm.

"We don't know exactly. Sometime between Tuesday night and Wednesday morning. You know Dr Monroe?"

"I…yeah, sort of. I…uh…"

"How long have you known her?"

"A few months." Murdock knew never to divulge any more than absolutely necessary.

Regina, always eager to help, intervened. "Captain Murdock was a resident here until a few months ago. Dr Monroe was his psychologist."

"Thanks, Regina," Murdock muttered. "Very good."

"You're welcome," she answered. Her eyes widened though, when she saw the look on Murdock's face, and immediately realized she hadn't helped at all.

"Ah. So…" The cop eyed Murdock suspiciously. "You were a patient of hers?"

"I was. I'm not any more. I was released. Listen, there's no use thinking I had anything to do with her being abducted or disappearing or whatever. I was in Virginia until day before yesterday. You can check. I just came down here to say hello to some old friends before I go back home."

The policeman eyed Murdock for a moment before apparently deciding that the pilot was telling the truth. "Do you know anyone who would want to kidnap her?"

"No." Murdock shook his head. He would have liked to take her away somewhere, so they could just be alone. A private island, where there were no rules about doctor-patient relationships crossing ethical barriers. Where they could talk things over and clear the air. But he would never have done that without her consent. "Has anybody called her family? She was from Georgia. Savannah."

"Yeah, we called 'em. Nobody's heard anything from her. She talked to her parents last Saturday. Now they're freakin' out, lemme tell ya. Her mom fainted the second I said the word 'disappeared'."

Murdock could feel panic setting in now. "And y'all've asked her friends if they've heard from her?"

"Yep." The cop shook his head, looking annoyed at being asked questions as though he were a rookie. "Nobody has heard a peep out of her since Tuesday, when she left work. Now it's Friday." He looked back at Regina, who was wide-eyed. "Trails run cold within twenty-four hours, ma'am. It's too bad nobody realized there was anything wrong until now. It could be she just left. People do that more often than you think. They get tired of one life and decide to try on a new one."

Yeah, I know the feeling all to well, Murdock thought miserably. But that didn't seem like Bridget, to him. She had appeared to be pretty stable, and content with her life. Then again, he had been a resident in a psych ward for ten years, so maybe his people-reading skills were a little off. He had certainly never been content with his life. He still wasn't.

He put off any notion of seeing former friends at the VA. Murdock left the VA and got back in the car. He sat there for several minutes, running all kinds of dreadful scenarios through his mind. The first one that really stood out was the possibility of Stockwell having something to do with this. His eyes narrowed. That bastard – could he really do something like this, just to keep him under control? It wouldn't be beyond him, Murdock knew, but then again, Stockwell also knew Murdock held a few things over his head and had no compunction about letting those things _drop_. Full exposure, for instance, and an unpleasant visit from men in black suits and Ray-Bans. Murdock still had that phone number, and he had let Stockwell know that he was more than happy to call it whenever he felt the need.

But if Stockwell wasn't involved, there were other possibly worse things. Murdock knew far too well about L.A.'s criminal underworld. There were people out there who had no regard for human life, much less human dignity, and an attractive woman like Bridget would be an excellent target. And if someone from that world had snatched her out of her home, there was no telling where she was now, and there was apparently no trace of her at all. The only witness was apparently a dehydrated canary.

It made something hurt in Murdock's chest to think of where she was, or what was happening to her. Not for the first time in his life did he feel completely helpless.

* * *

"Is it just me, or does that look weird?" Frankie asked.

Face, bored with attempting to find something interesting on television – the set received three channels, including one where a program about the process of making Swiss cheese was being aired – stood up and looked out the window. Frankie pointed across the road at a large, slightly dilapidated warehouse. A sign on the building said 'Brady's Office Warehouse'. Face noted that a white van was parked there, and he recalled having seen that same van back at the Moo Cow.

"I've seen that van…but what's weird about it?"

"Well…" Frankie peered out again. "Two guys just got out of that van, and I could have sworn they were both wearin' pieces."

"Toupees?" Face could barely contain his amusement, as he remembered that one of the men in that van had, according to Murdock, had a head that looked like a boiled egg being attacked by a spider. Surely that guy hadn't been _that_ insecure. And Face had never seen a guy wearing a toupee who didn't look like a guy _wearing_ a toupee.

"No, man. _Guns_. Why would somebody need guns in an office warehouse? Gonna shoot a desk?"

Face looked out again, with Frankie, and they were startled to see the two men emerge from the warehouse, look around carefully, and go back inside. Moments later, they reappeared with what appeared to be a red-headed young woman wearing a blindfold. Her hands were bound behind her back. She jerked against her constraints, but the two men had a firm hold on her and pushed her toward the van.

"That does _not_ look good," Face said. He went to the wall and pounded three times, signaling to B.A. and Hannibal in the next room.

"What?" Hannibal yelled, sounding irritated. He had been trying to take a nap.

"Look out your window, across the road!" Face yelled back.

Hannibal turned the TV off, sick of Swiss cheese and unable to sleep, and peeked out the window. His irritation vanished when he saw a woman being shoved into a van by two rough-looking men. He waited, wondering what would happen again, and wrote down the van's license plate number on his hand. The two men closed the van door, locked it, and went back inside the warehouse.

"Interesting," he said to B.A., who was now standing beside him. "I'm going to guess that she is not a voluntary passenger in that van."

"I kinda doubt it," B.A. agreed. He had been stretched out on the other bed, drinking milk and wondering if Swiss cheese tasted any good. Now, dairy products were forgotten as he and Hannibal briefly discussed a plan. After checking to make sure the two men were still inside the building, they slipped over to Face and Frankie's room.

"So…uh…what do we do?" Frankie asked.

"Well, the element of surprise is very helpful, but finesse is also paramount," Hannibal pointed out. "Frankie, you and Face go 'round to the back and see if there's a door. If there is, get those two goons back there, while B.A. and I get the girl out of the van."

"It's locked," Frankie told him.

"Ah, hell, since when has a locked car stopped us?" Face said with a grin. "And what do we tell the goons when we get them to come to the door? And what if there is no door?"

"If there's a door, tell 'em you're selling Girl Scout cookies. If there's not a door, we'll think of something else. Either way, that van doesn't leave with her in. Got it?"

"Got it," Frankie nodded, eager to rescue that poor woman and also glad to find something interesting to do. The four men checked their weapons and went out into the baking sun. "I'll be glad to get back to Virginia tomorrow," he said to B.A., who nodded. "I can only take so much Swiss cheese."

* * *

Face and Frankie stepped through the weeds beside the warehouse, keeping as quiet as possible. Reaching the back, they were relieved to see that there was indeed a door. Frankie stood to one side, out of sight, while Face knocked. A few minutes went by until at last Boiled Egghead answered the door, and looked curiously at Face, who couldn't help thinking that Murdock was exactly right – that was a _bad_ combover.

"Whatcha want, mister? We ain't buyin'." He looked harried, and kept glancing behind him.

"We're not selling anything, sir, except…except salvation. We're from the…uh…Grace Temple. Just up the road from here. Would you be interested in Bible study?"

Boiled Egghead glared at Face. "I don't believe in God. And shouldn't you be pesterin' people in their homes, 'stead of at warehouses? Go 'way." He started to shut the door, but Face knew persistence – and timing – was vital.

"Well, even if you don't believe in God, sir, I know He believes in you!"

"Whatever. I said beat it, preacherman."

"Is there anyone else in there who might be interested in hearing the Gospel?" Face persisted.

"Naw." Boiled Egghead shook his head. He glanced back at his friend, who was coming up, looking vaguely curious and increasingly annoyed. "Hey, didn't I see you at that restaurant up the road, with some goofball? You didn't look like no-oof!"

Face moved fast, slamming his fist into the man's stomach with his full weight behind his fist. As he went down, Face smacked his knee into Egghead's nose. Frankie moved with lightning speed as well, getting the drop on Boiled Egghead's friend before he could even draw his weapon. The larger man was on the ground, holding his bloody nose and moaning, while the shorter man had his hands in the air.

"Put the gun down now," Frankie told him. "Kick it away. Go on. Nice and easy."

Face rolled Boiled Egghead onto his back and got his gun, tossing it to Frankie. Egghead's companion – a short, squatty man with a large nose and greasy hair – obeyed Frankie's orders and kicked his gun away. Frankie ordered the shorter man to go sit down in one of the broken office chairs, and while Frankie tied him up with an extension cord, Face did the same with Egghead. With that accomplished, and the guns collected, they made their way to the front of the building, noting a large metal storage cabinet, lying on its back and filled with pillows. They glanced at each other, neither wanting to think of what that girl had gone through, and went to the front door. After peeking out to make sure all was clear, they stepped out and signaled Hannibal and B.A., who stepped out from behind the van.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Goons are tied up."

B.A. jimmied the van door's lock and slid it back.

She was sitting in a leather seat, gasping in the blinding heat. For a moment, she sat up straight, stock-still, listening. Then she staggered forward, attempting to escape in spite of being blindfolded and gagged. Her auburn hair was wild and sweaty. Face blocked her, gently pushing her back into the seat. "Hey, hey, it's okay. You're safe now."

Apparently she didn't believe him. She kicked Face in the chest with both feet, her aim either guided by the sound of his voice or pure luck. He fell out of the van and landed on his back. "Ow! Shit!"

B.A. jumped in next, avoiding her legs, and held her down, kneeling beside the seat and pinning her with one strong arm. She writhed and kicked and would have screamed had it not been for her gag. Frankie took a chance at personal injury and rushed in, snatching up the blindfold. She stared at him, her eyes black with fury and terror. For several moments, she looked at one man and then the other, her breathing slowing. When he was sure she was relatively calm, Frankie gently removed her gag.

Hannibal stepped up, smiling. "Afternoon, ma'am. Are you all right?"

"I…who…who are you?"

Face was getting to his feet, by degrees. He was sure he was going to have size seven bruises on his chest, but he didn't really care any more. The red-headed beauty sitting in that van had him captivated, even in her disheveled state. He smiled at her, ignoring lingering pain. "I'm Lieutenant Templeton Peck, this is Frankie Santana, Sergeant B.A. Baracus and Colonel John 'Hannibal' Smith. Very nice to meet you, and an honor to assist. What's your name?"

"B-Bridget Monroe," she said, her voice raspy. "I'm so thirsty. So hot…"

"Right. Get her out of there, guys. Come on. Let's get her to the hotel. Sorry we scared you there, ma'am," he told her as B.A. lifted her out of the van and sat her inside the door while he untied her hands. "Your friends are inside the warehouse, bound and hog-tied, and the police will be out here soon to deal with them. But right now, you clearly need air conditioning and something cold to drink. Can you stand?"

She tried to, but her knees buckled and she staggered forward, right into Face's waiting arms. He picked her up and led the way across the road to the hotel. She put her arm across the back of his neck and rested her head against his chest, closing her eyes and almost immediately falling into a deep, much-needed sleep.

* * *

"Boy, she's a looker, isn't she?" Face said. Bridget was curled up on the bed, sleeping. She had been out for the past three hours, barely even moving. He had patted her face with a damp washcloth and applied some ointment to her abraded wrists and ankles, and she had applied chapstick to her dried lips before collapsing into the bed.

"Faceman, this is neither the time nor the place," Hannibal scolded mildly, looking at the sleeping woman with concern. "I wonder how long she was in there? Kinda weird, too, that we'd end up rescuing two kidnapping victims in a row, within less than twenty-four hours. Nice little accident, though."

"Shouldn't we be calling the cops now?" Frankie asked. He had returned from checking on the two kidnappers in the warehouse. He and B.A. had made sure they were securely tied but relatively comfortable, so that they would be in excellent condition for trial and incarceration. B.A. had been given first watch at the warehouse, to keep an eye on them just the same and in case anybody else showed up looking for them, as they had apparently been due somewhere. He had also moved the van behind the motel, and hadn't complained one bit about being stuck in there with nothing to watch but two paunchy idiots. The only angry words he'd had were for the kidnappers, and they had been cowering with fear when Frankie left.

"Let her wake up on her own and get her bearings first," Hannibal decided. "She's not going to be able to talk to anybody for a while, I suspect, and those two goons aren't going anywhere. I wish we could get 'hold of Murdock, but he'll be here by dark, I think."

"Yeah. He's in for a surprise, ain't he?" Frankie grinned.

"Yeah, well," Face said with a smile. "I saw her first."

Hannibal rolled his eyes. "You're a walking hormone, aren't you Faceman?"

"I can't help myself. Who could? And I'm not going to _do_ anything, Hannibal. At least not until she's fully recovered."


	9. Chapter 9

**Title**: Drop Dead Halt

Chapter 9

**Author**: AlyshebaFan

**Rating**: K+

* * *

Bridget couldn't say she liked the way the hotel room smelled. The sheets seemed damp. The 'art' on the wall would make a dog uneasy. But by God, the air conditioning felt wonderful, and the ice water was clean and so cold it gave her a headache. She took another grateful drink, pouring the water down her throat and not minding when the ice cubes bumped against her nose. In fact, it made a giggle of nervous, almost hysterical joy bubble up inside her. She smiled and handed the glass to Lt Peck, who grinned and went to refill it.

"We won't make you talk about anything if you don't want to. And we'll call the police whenever you're ready to give them any information. Just rest for now." The white-haired Colonel Smith was kind, in a mischievous sort of way that reminded her of her grandfather. His eyes were almost the same shade of blue, with an identical devilish sparkle. Sgt Baracus was gruff and barely said two words to her, but she easily sensed a soft heart under what looked like about thirty pounds of gold chains (there was a whole field of psychology to explore _that _kind of display). Frankie Santana was good-natured and friendly, while Peck was quite handsome and very charming. They reminded her a lot of her brothers, though perhaps not likely to spend days in the woods, hunting wild pig and turkey. Her brothers went hunting and fishing at any given opportunity. These men were more likely to hunt down criminals. She wondered if they were some kind of commando unit, and considered asking, but decided that it was really not her business. They had saved her life, so frankly, she didn't care what they were.

"Well, I want those men in jail as soon as possible," she told Smith. "I don't have their names. I never even heard them say each others' names when they talked. I called 'em Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. They had a boss, too, but I can describe him when the police want me to. He was South American, I think. He had a thick accent and a wart. A big wart. Really sleazy looking. Like Al Pacino in _Scarface_, y'know?" Face handed her another glass and she began draining it eagerly. It was as if she hadn't had a drink of water in months.

"I'm sure the police will track him down. You think you were being…uh…sent south?"

She nodded, pushing the terror she had felt away. Now, she was surrounded by friendly faces and there was nothing to fear, except possibly an exploding bladder. And she knew she smelled rather rank. "I think so. Could I…uh…take a shower?"

"Certainly." Face grinned at her and helped her to her feet. She swayed a little, feeling slightly dizzy, but was able to make it to the bathroom unassisted. Face got her a bathrobe, a towel and scrounged around for some shampoo and soap. "There you go. Take your time. Not the best bathroom in the world, but it has hot and cold water. Need a razor? For your…uh…legs?"

"Yes, thank you." He handed her one of his own, and she smiled and closed the door in his face. She locked it and looked around the ugly pink room. It took her a while to peel her clothes off, but as soon as she stepped under the cool water of the shower, all the grime and sweat of the past three days was washed away. She turned on the hot tap and began scrubbing, wanting to get rid of it all. A long hot bath would feel wonderful, too, but she didn't want to inconvenience these men too much.

After thorough scrubbing, shampooing and leg and underarm maintenance, Bridget felt about a million times better. There was only Ivory soap, but it smelled like heaven compared to Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, and she sat on the edge of the tub, applying some more ointment to her ankles and wrists, with a bath towel wrapped around herself. She heard humming, and wondered who was in there with her, when she realized she was the one humming.

* * *

Murdock pulled into the motel parking lot, killed the engine and sat for a long time, glad it was dark. No one would see his red-rimmed eyes and his frantic worry. He had stopped at a phone booth on the way up and made a couple of calls, first to a contact in D.C., then to Stockwell. His contact had promised to look into the matter of Bridget's kidnapping and get back to him as soon as he could. Stockwell had denied any involvement and stated that he would also see what he could do. Murdock knew he could count on the former. He was less than confident in the latter.

He was exhausted. The drive had drained him, mainly because he had spent the entire trip trying to think of _anyone_ would might harm Bridget, and then coming up with elaborate means of punishing said person. He looked at his watch and noted that it was almost nine-thirty. He had promised to be back by seven, so he knew Hannibal would be pissed at him. Sighing and preparing himself for a berating, Murdock put his head down and went to the door of the room where the Colonel and B.A. were bunking.

Hannibal answered, and looked Murdock up and down, frowning. "You're kinda late, Captain. And you also look like hell."

"I…uh…got delayed." Murdock batted away his initial response of 'Thanks, and by the way, you look fat'. That wouldn't have been a good reply to a CO. Years ago, that kind of smart-ass retort would have come right out, without a second thought. He wondered if maybe he was learning some kind of impulse control.

"Hm. C'mon – everybody's next door." Hannibal stepped outside and Murdock followed him down to the next room.

"I'm pretty beat. And I know I was s'posed to be here at seven, but…I…" He shook his head. He looked for B.A., but the Sergeant wasn't around. "I can explain, though…"

"Doesn't matter. I'm just glad you're back. I was startin' to worry there. We had a little bit of _interesting_ action while you were gone. You'll hate having missed it."

"Oh?" Murdock was more interested in just collapsing into a bed – any bed – and going to sleep for a few weeks. He was going to need sleep, because when and if he ever heard about Bridget's fate, he doubted he'd ever sleep again.

"Yeah. Police'll be here soon. We need you to do the talking, actually. Just say what we tell you and everything will be fine." Hannibal knocked on the door and Frankie let him in.

Face was sitting at the end of the bed, watching TV and learning about the larval stage of the solitary wasp's life cycle. Frankie went back to the table and resumed reading a novel. Murdock thought it was odd that B.A. was nowhere to be found. He gave Hannibal a quizzical look and was about to ask what the hell was going on when the bathroom door opened and Bridget Monroe stepped out, clad in a bathrobe, her hair wrapped up in a towel.

At first, she didn't look in his direction. She was drying her hair and humming "Blue Moon of Kentucky". When she did finally look up, she initially smiled at Hannibal, but her smile slowly faded when she saw Murdock.

"Well, kiss…my…grits…" Murdock said, for lack of anything else he could say.

"Captain Murdock!" she gasped. Her eyes widened. They were the same shade of expensive jade. She was just as slim and elegant as ever, with the same beautiful legs. Murdock fought to keep his expression unreadable, but he couldn't stop himself from drinking in the sight of her, relief washing over him. He wanted to sit down.

Face stared at Murdock, bewildered, then looked at Bridget. "You know each other?"

"Uh…" Murdock looked away. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Sort of. A little." He looked at Face, who was looking at Bridget. The conman was clearly smitten, and that meant one thing – H.M. Murdock was out of the running. He looked down at his Converse hightops and cursed fate for being such a cruel, heartless bitch. _As if you were ever in the running, you idiot_, he told himself bitterly. _I was scratched from that race, long ago. Face is the Derby horse. I'm just an old, broken down plater._

"I was his psychologist…at the VA," she explained. "It's…it's good to see you again, Captain," she said.

"What are you doing here?" he asked her, avoiding her gaze, struggling to overcome his shock and cover his relief. It was a wonder he hadn't collapsed so far. She was alive. She was safe. And she was still as far from him as the Earth was to the Moon. To add to the mileage, Face was in the picture, and no woman threw Face over for H.M. Goddamn Murdock.

He wanted to go curl up in bed, pull the sheets over his head and never get up again. Go back to the VA…another VA, of course, and stay in the padded cell forever. He'd give up his belt, in case his misery finally did overwhelm him completely. He had been fighting that for years, but now it was hitting him so hard it nearly took his breath away.

"I was kidnapped by two men…who are currently in that warehouse across the street."

Face nodded. "Yeah. Remember those two goons in the Moo Cow? Yeah, it was them! Amazing, huh?" He looked back at Murdock, but was startled to see that he was talking to Murdock's back. The pilot was on his way out the door.

* * *

B.A. took a bite of his sandwich and scowled at the two kidnappers. Neither man was permitted to move unless expressly permitted to do so. He was a little bored, but he had stood sentry hundreds of times and knew never to let his guard down, even for a second. The knots were expertly tied and the goons showed no sign of any interest in attempting an escape, but just the same…

He grimaced. Swiss cheese was horrible. He would never try it again, no matter how good that show on TV had made it look.

He was startled when the door banged open. He drew his pistol, but saw that it was only Murdock. But this was a different Murdock than any he'd seen since Nam. His eyes were black with rage, and he was heading for the two kidnappers with a look of mayhem about him – his eyes were black, which meant one thing. B.A. moved fast, and barely caught the pilot before he jumped the bigger man.

"I swear to God, I'm gonna kill you sonofabitch!" Murdock shouted. "Let me go!" He broke out of B.A's hold and hit him so hard that he almost fell backward, but he managed to regain his balance and got Murdock's arms locked behind him again. The pilot still managed to get a hard kick in just the same, knocking Boiled Egghead over. The goon nonetheless knew better than to attempt anything other than to lie still and hope the crazy man didn't get to him.

"Let me go, dammit. Let me go!" Murdock was screaming now, struggling with remarkable strength. Fortunately, the heat and his exhaustion had taken their toll, and he wasn't a restless nineteen-year old any more.

B.A. held on just the same. He had seen Murdock this furious once before. It had been in some miserable little village in Nam, where the VC had been working over a group of civilians who had provided aid to the Americans, and Murdock had caught one of them raping a girl no more than fourteen years old. The pilot had grabbed that man and commenced to beating him until he was basically a smear of blood on the ground, then he'd found a long, sturdy piece of wood and went at him again. It had taken B.A., Face, Hannibal and two other soldiers to pull him off that VC. His eyes had been that same furious, glittering black. The VC had, as far as B.A. knew, barely survived. If at all.

"Come on, Murdock. Stop it! Calm down! What, you wanna go back to the loony bin? C'mon. Calm down!" He lifted Murdock off the ground a couple of times, hoping that might shake him out of his rage. It seemed to have the desired effect, as Murdock stopped shouting and struggling. When B.A. finally put him down, he stood still, staring down at Boiled Egghead. B.A. released him, and Murdock straightened his cap.

"You'll pay for this, you worthless pile of semi-humanity," Murdock hissed coldly. He glowered at the other man, who shrank back from him, more frightened of him than he'd ever been of B.A. Boiled Egghead winced and let B.A. help him back into his seat. Baracus checked his bindings and then leaned forward, looking him and his companion in the eye.

"You're very lucky. He ain't a big man, like me, but he's as mean as the Devil when he's riled, and I've seen him reduce bigger, tougher guys than y'all to _pulp_."

Boiled Egghead swallowed and glanced at Murdock, who was still standing there, fists clenched, a tic in his right cheek jumping. He finally turned and stalked out of the warehouse, slamming the door behind him. B.A. looked at the door, wondering, then shrugged and resumed his position in the chair opposite the two kidnappers. He took the Swiss cheese out of his sandwich and finished his supper.

* * *

Bridget kept twisting the belt of her bathrobe around her fingers, struggling to maintain some degree of calm. She was alone now, the men having all left to have a pow-wow in the other room and to allow her some time alone. She hadn't seen Captain Murdock since he'd stormed out. The TV was showing a program about the mating habits of the black widow spider (complete with post-coital cannibalism), and after a while she just couldn't bear that any more. She turned it off and stretched out on one of the beds, closing her eyes.

Her mind tumbled around from one thing to another. The horror of being loaded into that van, destined for God only knew where. The joy of being rescued, and the shock of seeing Captain Murdock again. The _thrill_, actually. Yes, it had sent her heart to pounding – she could certainly understand that old saying of 'you're a sight for sore eyes'. He had let his hair grow longer in the back, and his tan had seemed a little deeper. The only thing that was different was that his smile was gone, not just from his mouth but from his _eyes_. But God help her, of all the people in the world that she had wanted to see most, it had been him. How many times had she let herself think about him, while lying in that cabinet? Fantasized about him, in fact, and they hadn't been the silly imaginings of a teenager with a crush.

She jumped when there was a sound at the door. She scrambled out of the bed, terrified that Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum had escaped and were coming for her again. But when the door opened, it was Frankie, Lieutenant Peck and Captain Murdock. She swallowed nervously, trying to make eye contact with Murdock, but he wouldn't look at her.

"It's okay. Just us," Peck said with a grin. "We didn't wake you, did we?"

"No, no. I was just lying here, enjoying the air conditioning. Whoever invented it deserves a special spot in heaven."

"Right," Peck agreed. "I have to agree with that."

"_Quel surprise_," Murdock muttered under his breath. He went to the chest of drawers and began piling clothes into a suitcase. Peck regarded his friend benevolently, and turned back to Bridget.

"You'll be ready to talk to the cops tomorrow?"

"Yes, I think so. I'll be okay." She smiled brightly. "Captain Murdock…I…I take it you're doing well?"

"Peachy with a side of keen," Murdock snapped. He slammed the suitcase shut and carried it out of the room, banging the door shut behind him.

"He's in a mood," Frankie explained, looking a little embarrassed. "Been that way since he got back. But he gets that way sometimes, and it's usually best to just let him work it out on his own."

"Yeah, whole teams of specialists have been trying to figure Murdock out for years," Face laughed. "But maybe that's just not supposed to happen."

Bridget smiled nervously and resumed twisting the belt of her bathrobe around her finger. Face sat down next to her. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine!" she chirped. She certainly _felt_ okay, but she knew she'd be having nightmares for a while, and would be jumping at every unfamiliar sound. Probably at familiar sounds as well, but she was a psychologist and could handle things all right so long as she was rational about it. If not, she hoped she was wise enough to seek the help she might need. First it would be her mother, who was the best comforter on the planet, and then a qualified therapist if that didn't soothe her frayed nerves. She certainly hadn't developed Stockholm Syndrome, but it had been a traumatic experience, and certainly not one she was stupid enough to think she could cope with on her own.

"You're looking a lot better," he nodded. "I mean…you looked okay before…I mean…well, you know…"

"I looked like a kidnapping victim, Lieutenant Peck. Hardly my best. But I feel better, and I can assure you that a cool shower and an Epilady cures a whole host of ills."

He smiled. "I'll have to take your word for it with regard to the Epilady. And my name's Templeton."

She raised her eyebrow. "That's the name of the rat in _Charlotte's Web_," she told him. "Remember that story?"

"Never read it." Face stood up, looking a little chagrined, and looked around the room. Murdock came back in and turned the TV on. He stood there, watching the wasp take its first flight. Frankie grinned at Face, clearly amused. "We gotta pack, so Hannibal suggests you go to the other room. We'll all sleep in here."

"Well, that isn't fair…I'll have two beds to myself. What will y'all sleep on?"

"Three of us will sleep on the floor," Frankie said. "No way I'm sleepin' next to B.A. He kicks." He turned to Murdock, who was standing with his back to Face and Bridget, no longer packing but listening to their conversation and clearly uncomfortable. He was watching the solitary wasp kill a moth. "Hannibal wants to you to escort Bridget to the other room."

"Me?" Murdock looked shocked. "I…right. Okay." He finally looked at Bridget, who stood up, shaking her head.

"I'm not six. I hardly need an escort," she protested.

"Hannibal insists. There's no arguin' with Hannibal, either," Frankie informed her. "Hey, Murdock, maybe you can get us some ice…and some Cokes?" Frankie handed Murdock a plastic bag containing Bridget's clothes.

"Right. Sure." He held the door open for Bridget, who pulled the front of her bathrobe shut and held it with a clenched fist, glancing nervously at Murdock. He finally turned away and went outside. Face began packing his things, and Bridget drew in a deep breath and followed the pilot outside.

He was leaning against the wall, and Bridget stopped in front of him. His expression was inscrutable as he studied her. "Are you really all right?"

"Yes. I'm fine. I was very lucky. Your friends are…are very kind. I haven't been so glad to see a group of heavily armed men in my life."

"Try waking up naked and surrounded by a bunch of policemen."

She laughed, and Murdock looked away, a pained expression briefly crossing his face. Finally, screwing up her courage, she stepped closer. "How are you?"

"I told you – I'm fine. Hunky dory." He took a brave stab at a smile, but it failed completely and he gave up. "Better deliver you to your new quarters."

"You don't look fine," she said, concerned, stepping a little closer. Closer than she should have. "You look…tired."

"Been workin' a lot. Really busy."

"Are you having trouble sleeping?" she asked, dogging his steps as he walked toward the next room's door. "Nightmares?"

"Why would that matter to you? You're not my doctor any more. So just stop concerning yourself with me, okay?" He knocked on the door, and a moment later Hannibal opened it and shoved a pair of suitcases out the door.

"I can't believe you'd say that to me!" she hissed. The Colonel looked from Murdock to Bridget, curious, but kept his own counsel.

"I'll say whatever I damn well please. If I want to say that I have an invisible dog and that I've got hamsters in my bloodstream, I _will_, okay?" He snatched up Hannibal's suitcases and dragged them over to the other door. He banged on it and an alarmed Frankie poked his head out. He grabbed the cases and pulled them into the room, noting Murdock's angry expression and deciding to not ask any questions. "If I want to say that I'm fine, I will, and I am fine, so just drop it, all right?" He shoved the bag of clothes into Bridget's hands and walked away, head down.

Bridget glared at Murdock's retreating form, breathing hard, her heart pounding. Hannibal raised an eyebrow at her, and finally grinned.

"Lover's spat?"

"What? Oh. No. Of course…of course not. Good night, Colonel. I appreciate all the trouble you're putting yourself to." She managed a smile.

"Right. It's not a problem at all. Get some rest. Remember to bolt the door, and we'll see you in the morning." He grinned at her and went down to the other room. Bridget stood at her door for a moment before going inside. She followed the Colonel's orders and locked it carefully. One of B.A.'s T-shirts had been volunteered as a nightgown for her, and she slipped off the robe and climbed into the bed, stretching out wearily, and closed her eyes. Sleep didn't come for a long time, though. She kept remembering the look on Captain Murdock's face – the anger there, and the hurt. But for the life of her, she couldn't understand why.

What had she done?

* * *

Face had done the watch from about five in the morning until nine. The police had been called and Murdock had performed perfectly, affecting a Midwestern nasal accent and stating that he had just stumbled across Bridget by accident and had rescued her from her kidnappers. It was all pretty well open and shut, and the two kidnappers had been carried away in police cruisers. The only thing that seemed strange was Murdock's attitude afterward – he was snarling at everyone, and Hannibal had warned him to steer clear of the agitated pilot, who had gone off to be by himself. "You know how he is sometimes, Face. Just leave it."

That meant that Face could take a moment or two to talk to Bridget. He couldn't keep from smiling when he saw her, after she'd come back from the station. The police had insisted she be taken to the local hospital to be checked out, and had been declared to be in almost perfect condition. The doctor had said that she was just a little worn out, and that her rope burns would heal very quickly. Now, she was dressed in light blue cotton hospital scrubs and white deck shoes. She looked as cute as a button, sitting at the table with Frankie and B.A., chatting easily with them – she was even drawing B.A. out, which in itself was practically a miracle.

Face tapped her on the shoulder, and she nearly floored him with those green eyes. "Hey… maybe you'd like to take a walk? It's not quite so hot yet, and maybe you'd like to stretch your legs a bit?"

She smiled and nodded, eager to be out in the sunshine for a little while, after having been confined for so long. She was laughing when they stepped outside. "You have what a friend of mine would call 'warmth and charmth'," she told him.

"Why thank you, ma'am," Face drawled, bowing and imitating her Southern accent. He looked up and saw Murdock standing there, looking at them with a strange expression on his face.

"Don't mind him," Murdock told Bridget in an oddly clipped voice. "Whenever a woman talks Southern at him, he goes all…_stupid_."

Face's smile faded. "What's the matter with you, man? Aside from all the usual stuff, I mean?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all." Murdock brushed between them and went into the hotel room. Bridget gave Face a stiff little smile and let him take her arm.

"Shall we go? I'm quite eager to explore the grounds of this here luxury facility."

Face grinned at her, letting Murdock's anger roll off his back, and took her for a stroll around the pool and past the motel office. They paused, looking up the hill at the owners' house. It was, fortunately, just a regular little clapboard thing and nothing like Norman Bates' house from _Pyscho_.

"Do you know, there's a facility in Texas called the Bates Psychiatric Hospital? I mean, really, how unfortunate."

He laughed. "That wouldn't be where I'd want to go, if I had…those kinds of problems."

"No. Me neither."

They stood for a while, looking at the house and saying nothing. Bridget started to say something, then cleared her throat nervously and was about to ask Face a question when he looked at her, his expression serious.

"Do you think Murdock still has those problems? You were his psychologist, right? Was he…I mean, do you think he was ready to be released like that?"

"Do you?"

"I dunno. Sometimes, yeah. Other times, no. It's hard to tell. Last night was the first time I've seen him really angry in a long time – he came back from the warehouse looking like he was gonna kill somebody. Then again, I rarely know why he does or says anything. One day, I'm gonna get him drunk and get his story – the whole epic tale of H.M. Murdock. I'm sure it's a doozy."

She could only give Face a sad little smile, and he shook his head.

"Not that I'd ask. It'd be wrong of you to tell me anything he told you."

"Right."

"But I'm certainly curious." Face shook his head. "We met back in Nam, see, and he was probably nineteen and already seemed _old_. And at first, he was just a little…I dunno…off. Eccentric. Definitely had a mind of his own, but tough as nails, and nobody pushed him around. He didn't look like it, but God Almighty, he could fight, but he was also a genius at _avoiding _fights. You know the tiger on the back of his bomber jacket? He told me it was a Sumatran tiger – the meanest, most aggressive type of tiger. Strange thing is, Murdock isn't mean at all. I mean, he can be when he sees anyone hurting somebody who can't defend themselves, or a woman or a child. You know – he's got that whole 'knight on a quest' thing going for him. But all in all, he's a sweet guy." Face shrugged. "He had to fight a lot of times. Any Nam vet will tell you…we all went through some portion of Hell's acreage. Some worse than others. We don't pull 'I had more tragedy than you' acts on each other, but Murdock…" He shook his head. "Things happened to him over there that he still won't talk about."

Bridget nodded. "Templeton, I agreed with the assessment that Captain Murdock was capable of living on the outside. But as to sanity, I don't think anyone is one-hundred percent _sane_, if there's even such a thing. We all have our quirks, our eccentricities, our obsessions…it's what makes us human, and interesting at that. But true insanity is hard to define. It's not just doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result. It's far, far more complicated. Sometimes, our reality is just too hard to cope with, particularly after a severe trauma, and we retreat into something that feels safe and comfortable…or comforting. I've tried to help countless people like Captain Murdock. Some worse, in fact. Far worse. The best we 'sane' people can do is just try to have compassion for them without being patronizing."

"Do you play along, though? I do that with him all the time. If he's pretending to be a pirate, I have mock sword fights with him and yell 'Avast, ye mateys!' And if he's Frank Sinatra, I pretend I'm Dino. Am I making it worse?"

"Well…can you sing like Dino?"

"No."

"Then I would have to say no."


	10. Chapter 10

**Title**: Check Under the Bed

Part 9

**Author**: AlyshebaFan

**Rating**: K+

* * *

"This is it."

The car stopped in front of a pretty little stone and cedar Victorian cottage, and Bridget looked warily at her house, wondering how she would feel when she went inside. But her uneasiness was soon replaced by dismay – her flowers needed watering, and heaven only knew how poor Harvey was doing.

She was sitting in the cowboy seat, between Hannibal and Face in the front, while B.A., Frankie and Murdock were squeezed uncomfortably into the back. The three men had bickered during a lot of the trip, Captain Murdock grumbling about the heat and his growing claustrophobia. She had directed Face through her neighborhood and now they all sat staring at her house. "Nice place," Hannibal said at last, noting the red flowers growing on a vine climbing on her porch railings. "Is that bougainvillea?"

"Yes. It takes a while for it to really start taking over, but once it does, it takes a flamethrower to get it under control. Please, everybody come on inside. I can at least get you something to eat before you…uh…leave." She looked in the rearview mirror and caught Murdock's eye. They stared at each other briefly, momentarily frozen, before he looked away. As the thinnest of the three, he had been forced to sit in the middle and he was clearly uncomfortable. As soon as Face parked, Frankie hopped out and Murdock scrambled out behind him, with B.A. getting out the other side.

The five men stood on the sidewalk, all feeling some degree of awkwardness as Bridget went up to her house. She collected newspapers, checked her mailbox and sorted through bills and junk. She turned back and gestured for them to follow her, and the men went single file through her trellis, which was overgrown with climbing roses, up her cobbled sidewalk and onto her porch. She fumbled for her key and unlocked the door.

"Good Lord, it's hot in here," she said. "Let me turn the AC on. Make yourselves comfortable. I know I have some spaghetti, and I make a mean tomato sauce. Come on…"

Murdock wrinkled his nose at the stuffy heat, and looked around the room. Bridget had turned the lights on, and he wasn't surprised to find her house to be utterly feminine, with a Victorian décor. Pretty rose-colored wingback chairs and a comfortable-looking sofa formed a 'conversation area' in the living room, and a large, hand-decorated armoire that he suspected hid an entertainment center occupied a corner directly across from a comfortable-looking leather chair. Bridget would probably find electronics vulgar-looking, he thought with a smile.

He wandered into the kitchen, which was off to the right. He noted a hallway leading off the kitchen, where another doorway led into what he assumed was a bathroom. The kitchen was bright yellow and inviting. Bridget had already put a large pot of water on the stove, to start boiling. They froze in their steps when they saw each other, and she began wringing her hands. "Hi."

"Hi," he answered softly.

"Where is everybody?"

"Probably checking for anything out of the ordinary. They do that. It's in their blood."

"All they'll find will be my office and the master bath," she said with a small smile. "There's another bath down that way," she told him, pointing a pasta stirrer toward the hallway. "And the guest bedroom. I'm guessing you're really not into Victorian design?"

"Can't say that I am, but…well, I won't be here long. We'll have to fly out tonight."

She nodded and turned back to get the spaghetti down from her cabinet, but he saw that her hands were trembling. Murdock noticed her canary, which occupied a cage on a stand. The bird beeped a question and Murdock studied it curiously. "What's his name?"

"Harvey," she answered. She was breaking the spaghetti and putting it in the pot, adding some vegetable oil and salt. "He belonged to my uncle, back in Savannah, and…oh, God. I need to call my mother. The police said she was going crazy, worryin' about me." She turned the burner on and went to her phone. "Would you mind watching the pot?"

"Sure." Murdock checked the bird's water dish and was pleased to see that someone had apparently filled it. He also had plenty of seeds.

Bridget brushed a stray strand of hair away from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear as she dialed her parents' number. "My boss at the VA got in here, by way of my neighbor – she's eighty-six years old…my neighbor, that is, and I gave her a key to my house long ago, because sometimes her air conditioning goes out during the day, while I'm at work, and I hate the idea of her being stuck in her house, melting into her plastic-covered couch. She just has a wall-unit in her bedroom, and it's no bloody good. I keep telling her to get a new one. Anyway, she kept an eye on the bird, but I wish she'd done the same for my flowers. Then again, it's been so hot. I can't expect the poor little thing to stand out there and water plants."

Murdock nodded. He kept one eye on the pot of spaghetti and the other on Bridget, who was waiting while her parents' phone rang. She was still wearing her hospital scrubs, and looked about as sexy as a woman had any right to look. Why did she have to be a psychologist? And why did she have to be _his_ psychologist? Why couldn't she have just been a waitress or a flight attendant or _anything_ else? But Murdock wasn't sure he'd have even had enough nerve to approach her then.

He had never possessed overwhelming self-confidence, when it came to women, unless he had taken on some other persona. His past flings had rarely lasted long, and most of them had resulted in the woman in question pursuing him, which had always been a shock in itself. That nurse back in Nam, for instance – one minute he'd been escorting her back to her quarters after a soldier had gotten too aggressive toward her in a bar, and the next she was pushing him into her bed. He had been twenty years old then, uncertain of even surviving into next week, and so he had enjoyed himself with her, living in the moment instead of worrying about tomorrow. She had appeared to enjoy his company as well.

He wondered what had ever happened to her. Felicia. She had had nice legs, too. She had been a few years older, and had been kind to him, but when it had ended, it had _ended_, with no hard feelings on either side. He wondered where she was – was she happy? He certainly hoped so. She deserved that much.

"Mama? This is Bri-…yes, it's me. I'm okay. No. Stop crying, Mama. Mama, you're gonna get dehydrated…"

Murdock snickered and stirred the pasta. He didn't know anybody who would start crying with joy when they heard from him. He had a distant cousin in San Antonio, but Murdock doubted she'd even recognize him, much less care if he was alive or dead.

"I was rescued, actually. Four men with enough weapons to start an armory happened to see me and…yes, they're very nice. A little rough around the edges, but men with that many guns aren't going to have the personalities of accountants, but they're very sweet and kind, and I'm home now. No, the men who kidnapped me are in jail and I figure I'll be testifying against them…no, they won't get out if I have anything to say about it. No, Mama, calm down. I don't need either of the boys to come out here. Well…I suppose so. I'll have to ask my boss…well, I suppose he'd allow me to have a few days off, considering the circumstances."

She looked over at Murdock, who pretended he wasn't listening. He continued stirring. Harvey started singing, loudly. He heard Hannibal and Face in the living room, bickering about something. B.A. stuck his head in the kitchen. "She's letting you cook?" he asked, incredulous.

"Hush. She's on the phone with her mom!"

Chastised, B.A. withdrew. Murdock turned the burner down and let the pasta simmer. He went back out into the living room. Frankie and Face were on the big sofa, swallowed by the cushions and wondering how they'd ever get up again. Hannibal had taken a seat in one of the wingbacks, and B.A. was looking around uneasily, uncomfortable in such completely feminine surroundings.

"The Yankee?" Bridget was saying. "What Yankee? Oh. Right. James. No, I don't guess I need to call him, seeing as how we broke up last week. Well, yes, that was a factor, I suppose. You can only tolerate a man mispronouncing the word 'car' for so long."

Murdock processed that bit of information, and glanced over at Face, who was trying to get out of the couch's grip. "Help," he finally said, but got no response from anyone. Frankie was in the same predicament, but was less vocal about it.

"Captain Murdock? She wants to talk to you…to all of you." Bridget put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Just be aware, she's a bit…er…overwrought."

"I'd be the same, if somebody kidnapped my daughter," Hannibal said, taking the phone, pulling rank on Murdock. "Mrs. Monroe? This is Hannibal Smith. Yes, ma'am, it was my pleasure to help your daughter. No, ma'am, it wasn't any trouble at all. Thank you, but I refuse to take so much as a penny from you or your fine family. No, ma'am, absolutely not. Right. Good. Thank you." He gestured to Face, who was still trying to escape from the couch. B.A. rolled his eyes and hauled him up, then went to rescue a still floundering Frankie.

All four of Bridget's rescuers were treated to gushing praise and thanks from Victoria Monroe, and at first Murdock figured that since he hadn't actually been involved in the operation, he wouldn't have to talk to her. But Frankie handed the phone to him and he looked at everybody, bewildered, before diving in.

"Uh…hi, Mrs. Monroe, this is…er…Captain Murdock."

"I thought Bridget said four men rescued her."

"Well, I was…er…elsewhere, but…anyway, I…"

"Well, I'm just so tickled to talk to you all. You just made my day." Victoria Monroe's Southern accent was twice as strong as Bridget's, but pleasant to listen to, and she sounded like a warm, happy-natured person, even if her voice was shaking from what had probably been at least forty-eight hours of frantic crying and praying. "You don't know what it's like, to lose somebody you love. It'll just tear you to pieces, son. I mean it – I've got five children and Bridget's the youngest – my only girl, and if I had lost her, I don't know what I'd do. I'd probably just go crazy with grief."

"Actually, I do know what that's like, ma'am…to a certain extent." He glanced at Bridget, who was combining ingredients for her tomato sauce and watching him. "And I know all about crazy."

Victoria didn't appear to hear him, she was so busy expounding on her joy and relief. "I'm so happy she's all right. So happy – so relieved. Her daddy and I can barely contain ourselves, and her brothers…well, we're lookin' forward to seein' her soon. She promised she'd come out as soon as she can, and as God as my witness, I'll talk her into staying in Savannah for good. No more of this notion of livin' California, amongst all that…well, I know it's not polite to say this, but I hated her livin' out there amongst all that trash. Yankees and left-coasters…besides the earthquakes and actors. Lord have mercy, every time I turn on the TV, there's another earthquake or a serial killer runnin' loose out there. I won't have it any more. My baby girl is comin' home, if I have any say in the matter."

"Well, you'll probably have a hard time convincing her, ma'am, but…give it all you can, I guess."

After a few more pleasantries, Murdock handed the phone back to Bridget, who talked with her mother for a few more minutes. When she hung up, the pasta was ready and the sauce was bubbling. The kitchen smelled of basil and garlic and other herbs, while the house was cooling down. Bridget made a pitcher of old-fashioned iced tea. Hannibal looked at his watch, noted they were running far behind, and gave up. Besides, he was starving and ready for a good meal. They all assisted Bridget in setting the table, and put on their best manners as they sat down at her formal dining table.

At first, everyone was silent. Bridget watched the men eat, fascinated. B.A. put his head down and tucked into his plate of pasta, which she had piled high. Murdock only seemed vaguely interested in his meal, pushing his pasta around on his plate until he caught Hannibal's hard look and forced himself to eat. Face exhibited perfect table manners, as did Hannibal. Frankie asked for seconds. She put the pasta and the sauce on the table, where the goats could get at it, as her mother would say, and left a little pasta on her plate when she was finished, like a proper belle. She had set the table with her best china and Francis I silverware, which made Murdock glance up at her. His mouth twisted a little, and she could have sworn he winked at her.

"I'm afraid I don't have any dessert," she said, when the plates were cleared and Face and Frankie were put on dish-washing duty.

"Doesn't matter. I don't have a sweet tooth, and we need to keep our girlish figures," Hannibal told her with a wicked grin.

Bridget laughed. B.A. was yawning, but suddenly snapped to attention and glared at Murdock. "You drugged my spaghetti, didn't you? You're gonna put me on another plane!"

"I did no such thing," Murdock said, with wounded dignity. "I am in charge of air support and morale, not pharmaceuticals."

"I ain't flyin' nowhere," B.A. said firmly. "No way."

Bridget's eyebrows lifted, and Hannibal grinned. "No matter. It's too late to fly out now. Murdock's too tired, and we all need some shut-eye. Dr Monroe, we'll clear out and get a coupla rooms for the night, and fly out tomorrow morning…"

"Isn't my place closer to the airport?" she asked.

"Yeah, a little, but it doesn't…" Hannibal started.

"Well, then, y'all can just stay here. My sofa folds out and I've got a spare bedroom with a queen-sized bed."

"There's five of us. One of us'd have to sleep with you," Face said, and a smile slowly spread across his face at that possibility, even though he was just joking. But his smile faded when Bridget looked at Murdock, whose cheeks reddened. He looked at Bridget again, and saw that she was blushing a little too.

"Well, there's a little couch in my office. One of y'all could fit on that, fairly comfortably. Listen, I insist on this. It's only fair, after all you've done for me. I won't hear any arguments, Colonel. Just pretend I outrank you."

Hannibal realized she wasn't going to take no for an answer, and nodded. "All right. Fair enough. But B.A. here is gonna go down to the local hardware store and get some new locks for your doors, because in my opinion, those things are out of date and untrustworthy. Got anything else around here that needs fixing?"

"Uh…well, there's a drip in the bathroom sink that drives me nuts sometimes…" she said, gesturing toward the master bath before thinking about it. Before she could even object, B.A. was on his feet and headed in there, inspecting the sink and making a quick diagnosis.

"Just needs some tightening up. An easy fix."

"Now listen here," she said to the big man as he started out the door. "You're my _guests_ here. And I can hire a plumber!"

"Why? You have one here now, and he wears coveralls. Anything else?" Hannibal was in his element, taking charge and preparing to assign everybody to their jobs.

Bridget shook her head. She wasn't going to mention the toilet, which would occasionally run. She was not exactly a do-it-yourselfer. In fact, she admitted that she was mechanically derelict at _best_. "Um…no. Nothing else. Just…I really hope y'all will at least get some sleep."

"Oh, we will. Go on to bed. We'll have the sink fixed and the locks changed before you know it." Hannibal grinned at her. Bridget sighed, knowing there was nothing she could do to stop them. It was like having five of the seven dwarves taking over her house – only they weren't dwarves. Hannibal was Doc. B.A. was Grumpy. She wasn't sure if Murdock was Bashful or Happy – it all depended on his current state of mind. None of them appeared to be Sleepy, but she was getting pretty tired herself, and after a while, she gave up and went into her bedroom, closing the door, and after a moment's thought and hoping they wouldn't be offended, locked it.

The room was cool and quiet, and after changing into her pajamas, she succumbed to paranoia and checked under the bed and in the closet. Assured that all was well, and feeling ridiculous, she climbed into her bed and lay there, listening and staring at the ceiling. The men were out there, talking and laughing, bickering a little, but clearly a family that loved and supported each other. She was glad to know that Captain Murdock had support from people who would lay down their lives for him if necessary.

She remembered Templeton's words – one of them would have to sleep with her. She hadn't been able to keep from looking at Murdock and at least _thinking_ about that. How nice it would be to sleep with him. Maybe not even make love, but just lie there with him, listening to his breathing, feeling so warm and safe, and maybe giving him just as much comfort. Bridget moved to her side and hugged a pillow to her chest. She wasn't going to kid herself – she knew she would do more than just lie in bed with him.

* * *

Face had, at first, felt more than little ticked off that Murdock had apparently made a move on Bridget at some point, back at the motel. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized that whatever moves had been made had been made _long_ before, and obviously back at the VA. He watched Murdock work on one of Bridget's locks, expertly using an electric screwdriver to put in the new lock and deadbolt, and formed his words carefully.

"She's a beautiful woman, huh, Murdock?"

Murdock glanced up at him and shrugged.

"I mean, beautiful and classy, and a good cook to boot, and doesn't _mind_ cooking. Hard to find a woman like that, these days."

"She's from the South," Murdock pointed out. He tested the locks and stepped back into the house, pulling the door shut and checking to see that everything was aligned properly. Satisfied, he put the screwdriver back in B.A.'s toolbox. "Southern women like to cook."

"Right." He checked his hands for any grease stains or cuts. He was never going to be much of a mechanic, mainly because he hated getting dirty. Murdock didn't mind a bit, and he was almost as good at B.A. and repairing and building things. The pilot went into the kitchen and began washing his hands, and Face followed him. "It's just a pity, you know?"

"A pity?" Murdock turned to look at him, brow furrowed.

"Yeah. A pity that what should have happened couldn't happen. I mean, it's always gonna have to be what _might_ have been. Change the circumstances, and everything would be different."

Murdock's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

"Well…isn't it obvious?"

Expression guarded, Murdock dried his hands and glared at his friend, waiting. "I don't know yet. I hate it when you're cryptic."

Face smiled. "It was her, wasn't it?"

"Who?"

"Bridget. She's the woman you told me about. The one 'nothing' happened with, right? Yet again, you show excellent taste, by the way." He grinned, enjoying the expression that crossed Murdock's face. The pilot was a great actor, and superb at poker, but he couldn't hide everything for too long.

"Nothing did happen!" Murdock objected. "And she's better suited for you."

"How? She's not blonde, and she's smart…_and_ she likes you."

"She doesn't," Murdock snapped. "And what is this, the fifth grade? Just stop right there. Don't even try it, Faceman. Not now. Not ever." He looked down, struggling to regain his self-control. "But I swear…I swear, if you hurt her, I'll…"

"You'll what?" Face asked, feeling a flash of anger at his friend for the first time since he'd found out Murdock had known about his father, and kept the secret until it was too late. "What will you do?"

"Just leave me alone, all right?" Murdock pushed past Face and stalked out of the kitchen. Face watched him leave, and his anger evaporated, replaced by sadness. He had no right to be angry at Murdock – the guy always tried to do the right thing, no matter how much it hurt him. But Templeton Peck wasn't about to let his best friend go through life alone and miserable when happiness was ripe for the taking. He was going to do what he could to help, starting tomorrow.

With a plan forming in his mind, Face went in search of Hannibal to discuss the matter.


	11. Chapter 11

PUZZLES

Part 11

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan

* * *

"Well, all I can say is that Stockwell won't like it," B.A. pointed out.

"Who gives a Flying Wallenda what Stockwell thinks?" Face snapped, growing weary of all this doubt and negativity. "We're doing this for a friend. I mean, if you can't help a friend, who can you help?"

"For the past decade or so, we've been helping total strangers," Hannibal pointed out. He lit a cigar and leaned back in the wicker chair. They had all – minus Murdock, who had tried to fold himself up on the couch in Bridget's office and had finally fallen into a fitful sleep – gathered on the back porch of the Victorian cottage, and Hannibal was glad to finally be able to smoke. No way would he light up in somebody's house without permission, and he knew Bridget would never allow the scent of tobacco in her neat, orderly little house. He smiled to himself – odd how that woman could so easily wrap them all around her little finger. She had a command about her that could send a four-star general scurrying to obey her. "But I do see your point, Lieutenant."

"So it's settled? We'll take Bridget to D.C. with us, and Murdock and I will take her down to Savannah on Stockwell's jet. Easy peasy!" He rubbed his eyes. At four a.m., he could sound just like Murdock.

"I care what Stockwell thinks," Frankie interjected, looking pensive. "We screw around too much, and the deal's off and we're in prison. I can't go to jail, man. I just can't. Besides…we _are_ his employees, more or less, and when you take a man's pay, you ride for the brand."

They all stared at Frankie, their faces registering varying degrees of bewilderment, shock or disgust. "You've been watching too many westerns lately, Santana," B.A. said. "Hangin' out with Murdock, I'll bet."

"Well, he has a whole collection of 'em. I go over there sometimes and we watch TV or shoot hoops." He shrugged. "He's turned me on to John Wayne, actually. They're great movies, too. _Rio Bravo_. _Stagecoach_. And then there's Clint Eastwood and…"

"Shut up, Frankie," Hannibal told him, blowing a perfect smoke circle. "Stockwell won't know anything about it, because we won't tell him, and Murdock won't know about it until we're in the air, and by then it'll be too late to do anything about it and according to Face, he will easily acquiesce to our machinations. So it's lights out, guys. Come on."

"Hey, wait a minute," B.A. said, standing up, arms folded across his chest. "I ain't gettin' on no plane."

Face looked relieved and stood up, stretching wearily. He had to get up early and have a talk with Bridget, and was looking forward to watching the sparks fly. He glanced at the uncooperative Sergeant and sighed. Usually it was Murdock who distracted B.A. until somebody could jab him with the needle and put him out for a flight. Frankie, however, had discovered that they had no more of the concoction they used on him and Murdock's schedule was going to be very tight tomorrow morning, if Face's plans went right. But B.A. was the least of their concerns. It was Murdock who would have to be kept off balance.

Tomorrow was going to be so much fun, Face thought as he went in search of a place to sleep.

* * *

The couch in Bridget's office had done little for Murdock's mood or his back. He woke with a start, images of VC's and burning helicopters fading away while his heart kept pounding and he could still hear the screams. He wondered if he had screamed, but there were no sounds coming from the hallway – he always heard them coming at the VA, when he woke from a nightmare. Last time he had fallen asleep at the house in Langley, he had awakened everyone in the house, including two Ables and a teacup poodle that lived across the street.

It took him a minute to get his bearings. He was in Bridget's office, and he stood up very slowly, remembering his grandfather's comment that he had known he was getting old when parts of his body started to click. Murdock's knee clicked when he climbed a flight of stairs – that was from a hard landing in a Huey. His shoulder clicked when he pulled his arm back ("So don't pull your arm back," had been Hannibal's simple solution to the issue), resulting from that bullet he'd taken a few years ago. His elbows and other knee ached on cold mornings. He knew it was going to rain if his right trigger finger locked.

He slowly wandered around the room, admiring an old, glass fronted Victorian secretary desk, its cubbyholes stuffed with paper cubbys. He pondered the books in there – old books on psychology, of course, along with novels. He sniffed at Jane Austen and the Brontes, Dickens, and a very old, faded copy of the poems of Robert Burns. He nudged the doors open and pulled it out, flipping through the age-stiffened pages and smiled when he saw the poem his grandfather had taught him, when he'd barely been out of diapers:

_Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,_

_Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,_

_Welcome tae yer gory bed,_

_Or tae Victory!_

When prompted, as a child, Murdock would get a mildly crazed look in his eyes and beat out the poem, hand over fist, Highland accent flawless, inflection on the mark, until he reached the stirring challenge at the end,

_Lay the proud usurpers low, _

_Tyrants fall in every foe, _

_Liberty's in every blow! - _

_Let us do or dee!_

His grandmother, a MacFarlane by birth, would start humming 'Scotland the Brave' when she heard that poem. Murdock dug in his pocket and pulled out the small, frayed square of the black and red tartan of her dispossessed clan, which she had given him before he'd left for college, after making him promise to remember who he was and where he came from. "Your ancestors died fightin' for their freedom. Don't you die fightin' the Clap!" She had put steel in his spine and God in his heart, as Al would put it. "An excellent combination," Emma had said firmly.

He laughed at himself – he was getting maudlin in his old age, remembering his grandparents and getting tears in his eyes. He stuffed the tartan back into his pocket and put the book back. He still read a lot of Scott, even now – that author had kept him focused on doing what had to be done because it was right, not because it was necessarily easy or convenient. He had finished _Frankenstein_ and was slogging his way through _Ivanhoe_ these days.

Stepping cautiously into the hall, he noted that the house was still silent, the light outside only just starting to creep in – it was about five thirty, his normal waking hour. He found his bomber jacket and his cap and went into the living room, where Face was sunk into the couch and trashing about, awake and gasping. "Help me outta here!"

Murdock hauled him out, wincing as his back objected. "You've gained weight," he told Face, who glared at him.

"What are you doing up?" Face asked him sharply, once he'd regained his composure. "You're supposed to be in the office, asleep on the couch!"

"I carved a gun out of a piece of soap and outwitted the guards. I wonder if Bridget has any cereal? Good stuff – Honey Combs or Sugar Puffs, maybe."

Face made a frustrated noise and followed him into the kitchen. He looked strangely agitated. "Why don't you go get some more sleep? You look beat, Murdock. I mean…I mean, seriously beat. It was a rough day for you yesterday, and…uh…the flight's a long one back to Virginia."

Murdock stared at him. "Okay, Senor Psycho, what's the matter with you?" He opened the refrigerator and noted that the milk was probably not too good, after three days. He sighed and closed it. "I haven't seen you this jittery since you were caught with that general's wife."

"Listen, first of all, I didn't know she was married, and secondly, she could have _told_ me, and thirdly…thirdly, as Hannibal's second-in-command, I am ordering you to…to go back to bed!"

"Uh, 'scuse me, lollipop, but I outrank you," Murdock pointed out sweetly. "And I'm hungry."

"Murdock, do you want me to wake up B.A. and tell him we're flying home? I will! I'll tell him!" Face was on the verge of some kind of panic-induced stroke, from what Murdock could tell, but he was too sleepy and grumpy to care what was causing it.

"I'm _hungry_!" Murdock growled, not wanting to give up this soon. He tried whining, which usually worked with Face. "Please? Please let me eat something. Pretty please!"

"No. Not now. Go back to bed and stay there, like a good boy!"

"But that couch is uncomfortable. It's like sleeping on boulders…"

"Then pretend you're camping. Go. Go go go go!" Face shoved Murdock out of the kitchen and frog-marched him back to Bridget's office, with Murdock griping the whole way. He finally got the pilot back in the room and pulled the door shut. Murdock stood there a minute, sighed and shrugged. He went back to the secretary desk, pulled down _Northanger Abbey _and began reading. He snickered as he sat down, remembering a critique he had written about this very novel, in college. Halfway through, he had waxed eloquent about the Regency period's societal rules about separation of the classes, family jealousies, how secrets can destroy lives, and of course the carnage of the helicopter crash. His English professor had given the paper an A-, writing in the margin that 'Mr Murdock's writing talent is far above par, and his ability to grasp the subtleties of 19th century English literature is quite remarkable. However, try as I might, I cannot find any references to crashed flight machinery in _any_ of Jane Austen's works. So while Mr Murdock's prose is excellent and his writing style is comparable to the best I've seen from students at this college and in fact from many the finest critics, I cannot award a perfect score to this treatise, as it might make Mr Murdock believe that being a smart aleck is useful in all instances'. Murdock had just wanted to make sure the old fart was paying attention. Apparently, he had been, and possessed a far keener wit than Murdock had expected.

He dozed off in the middle of the fourth chapter, and dreamed about girls in those ridiculous high-waisted Empire-style dresses, playing croquet and blowing up fish in the decorative pool with M-80's.

* * *

Bridget heard a dull thud and sat up, looking around her room in alarm. Another thud. It was coming from the bathroom next to her bedroom. She scrambled out of bed and was at the door when she remembered that five large men were in her house, and had likely discovered the problem with the toilet. Sighing, she pulled on her bathrobe and opened the door, peeking out. B.A. was indeed in the bathroom, working on whatever was wrong with the biffy.

"Sergeant Baracus, I really appreciate your efforts, but…"

"No problem, ma'am," he said shyly, and went back to knocking a huge pair of pliers against a pipe that apparently deserved a sound thrashing for its naughty behavior. She decided to leave that alone and fled to the kitchen. She was greeted by a smiling Templeton Peck, who had made coffee and was holding a cup in the palm of his hand, blowing on the steaming liquid and looking rather smug.

"Coffee!" she gasped, and lunged for the cup he was holding out to her.

"Cream and sugar?" he asked.

"Cream and sugar, with a little coffee!" she squealed and began preparing her morning sludge. "Oh, God…it's been almost four days since I've had coffee." She breathed in the lovely scent and after making sure it was to her liking, took a grateful sip. She closed her eyes and smiled happily.

"Feeling better?"

"I feel wonderful," she said with a laugh.

Face leaned against the kitchen sink and crossed his ankles. "Listen, I understand you've been ordered home to visit your parents. I think we can help you there. We've got a little Lear jet and an extra seat. We'll have to make a stopover in D.C., but we can take you to Savannah from there."

"Oh, please, don't put yourself to all that trouble," she said, taking another sip of the coffee. "I can book a flight and be on my way tomorrow…"

"Your Mom and Dad want to see you as soon as possible, don't they, and we would have no trouble at all getting you there. Listen, it's a perfect plan. And besides…you'll get to spend a minute or two with Murdock." He smiled into his cup, trying to look innocent and watching her reaction carefully. From the widening of her eyes and the way her cheeks pinked again, he was right on the mark. Face thought he should put this kind of skill on the market – he'd make a killing.

She looked down at her bunny slippers. "Um…I…I don't…"

"Hey, it's pretty obvious," he shrugged. "No use trying to deny it. And…well, don't let him know I said this, but you've got great taste. He's a good man. A bit…screwy at times, but a good man even then."

Her cheeks were even pinker. "It's also dangerous, Templeton. Psychologists can't carry on affairs with their patients. It's unethical, and I could lose my license."

He studied her for a moment, thinking that over. "He's not your patient any more. He's not even living in California now. And I do believe you just made a tacit admission that you would _like_ to carry on an affair with him. Am I right?" She got even pinker and Face burst into laughter. "Wow. I wish _I_ had been the one on the couch, but that's just how things go. You won't lose your license, either." His expression sobered when he saw her nervousness. "Listen, we just want Murdock to be happy. He deserves it – more than anybody I know, anyway. And…well, I have a plan. A cunning plan!" He held up a finger, like a professor expounding on a brilliant theory.

"Really?" she said, and couldn't keep from laughing into her coffee cup. "What sort of cunning plan? Will anybody die?"

"No one will die. It involves you and a Lear jet, and then it involves Hannibal and Frankie keeping Murdock distracted and probably irritated with us all. Then it might involve stealing said Lear jet from our boss. Just follow my lead and…you promise you'll be good to him, won't you?"

She put her cup down and leaned against the counter. "I would never hurt him, Templeton. Never. I can't make any guarantees that it will work, but…maybe I'm crazy for wanting to see how it goes. This might be the excitement and some residual _something _left over from the kidnapping. It might just be chemical. It might be some kind of rebound. But I would never hurt him." She smiled, thinking about all the things she'd _like_ to do with Captain H.M. Murdock when left alone with him. "I promise I won't leave a scratch on him."

Face laughed. "Good! Now. Sit down. We have a few things to go over."

* * *

B.A. looked up and was startled to see Murdock standing there, his eyes a little wide and his hair disheveled. He was holding a book in his hand, and Baracus noted that it was an old book. Who the hell was Robert Burns?

"Hey, B.A. Good morning!"

Baracus nodded and resumed banging on the pipe. The source of the problem had finally revealed itself and he was right on the verge of getting it repaired. He had at first thought he'd just have to go get a new toilet entirely and put in a whole new set of pipes, but it had finally dawned on him that there had to be a leak in there somewhere, and sure enough…

"B.A., do you know what's just on the other side of that pipe you're banging on?"

"Uh…" B.A. shrugged absently, only half listening to Murdock. There it was! Just a little bit of tightening and it would be a nice, quiet toilet again, like toilets ought to be.

"MY HEAD!" Murdock shouted at him, and rubbed his face. "Since six this morning. I know I don't generally sleep past five-thirty, but Lieutenant Loonypants ordered me back to bed and I was having a very pleasant dream about a red-he…er, I was finally getting some much-needed rest only to be awakened by _you_ pounding out the 'Anvil Chorus' _with little rhythm and no discernible talent_! So unless you're into getting swirlies, you will cease your ministrations on that damned pipe!"

B.A. was so startled by Murdock's furious diatribe that he put the pliers away and stood up, even looking a little apologetic. Murdock smoothed his hair and stalked away, muttering and rubbing his forehead. He went back into the office and slammed the door with perhaps a little too much force. B.A. frowned, looked down at the now repaired toilet, and shrugged. Let Murdock read Robert Burns or whoever as long as he wanted – Face had given him his own orders, and they were working just fine so far.

* * *

"What do you mean the jet is out of fuel?" Murdock yelled at Hannibal, losing his cool for about the fiftieth time that morning. He so rarely shouted at his CO that it startled him as much as it did Hannibal, and he stepped back. Hannibal took it well, though, and only replied with a beatific smile, shrugging. "I had it refueled when we left the airport," Murdock softened his tone a little. "I know I did!"

"Well, they say it's not, so we'll have to wait a few minutes at the airport while they finish up."

The morning had gone from bad to worse. First Frankie had told him that he couldn't find Murdock's suitcase, and wondered if maybe he had left it back at the motel. Murdock had torn into him, snarling that he had put the damned thing in the car himself, so how could it get _lost_? Frankie's response about Murdock's intermittent memory loss had _not_ gone over well and Murdock's cry of rage and raised fist had only been curtailed by a sharp reprimand from Hannibal.

So now his suitcase was gone, and inside it had been one of his favorite T-shirts: a picture of the Cat in the Hat holding a sign reading 'The Doctor Is In', and on the back, the cat holding another sign saying 'The Doctor Will Be Right Back'. That had Murdock thoroughly pissed, and in his agitated state he didn't notice Face standing right behind him in the kitchen and so he ended up with coffee stains all over his pants. "Hey, sorry, buddy," Face had said, looking properly contrite, but Murdock had contemplated the block of knives a little too long for Face's comfort and the lieutenant had gone out to the back porch with Bridget, to inspect her hibiscus.

"Yeah, I'll bet he's inspectin' your hibiscus," Murdock snarled to the empty living room. "Your hibiscus is gettin' inspected ever' whicha-way."

By the time Hannibal informed everyone that it was time to leave, Murdock was so keyed up and annoyed that he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to just get _out_ of L.A. and back to being bored to tears and miserable in Virginia. At least he wouldn't have to see Bridget standing next to Face, smiling at him as though he was the best thing to come along since Godiva chocolates. Finally fed up with the whole damned business, Murdock stomped outside to sit on the porch and feel his blood pressure rising.

Finally, everybody poured out onto the front porch, with Bridget hugging everyone goodbye. B.A. blushed when she planted a kiss on his cheek. Hannibal even looked a little flustered when she did the same to him. Frankie hugged her a little too long, and she pretended to get the vapors. Face got a lingering hug, which made Murdock want to throw up into her pot of skyflower. When she finally got to him, he wouldn't look at her, and he only held out his hand to her.

She stared down at his hand, and he remembered the kiss of just a few months ago. Finally, she took it in hers, he felt the same thrilling electricity, and he mumbled something that sounded like "Goodbye" or possibly "Gurg" and turned away. He clattered down the steps and got in the car. Face and Hannibal looked at Bridget, and Hannibal winked at her. She somehow kept from smiling and after a few more goodbyes, went back into her house.

* * *

The five men sat in an overly warm little room near the airstrip, watching the Lear being refueled. Murdock drank four cups of coffee and yet was oddly silent. Hannibal worked a crossword puzzle and Face and Frankie played poker.

"Why is it takin' so damned long to fuel that thing?" Murdock suddenly snapped. "What, was the fuel tank _empty_?"

"That's what they said," Hannibal answered with a smile. He took another puff on his cigar and tried to come up with the name of the Best Actor Oscar winner of 1949. He grinned and wrote in 'Crawford'. Great movie, _All the King's Men._ Not enough people had seen it.

"I need to get outta here," Murdock said. "I'm gonna run mad if I don't get back to Virginia."

"You already do run mad," B.A. said. He had been keeping a wary eye on everyone all morning, prepared for a counterattack if anyone came at him with a needle, a frying pan…a brick. It didn't matter. He wasn't going to get on that plane for anything. Face's plans were going just fine so far, but no way was B.A. going to cooperate so far as flying was concerned. He had bought a carton of milk at a convenience store on the way to the airport, and hadn't let it out of his sight.

"Oh, shove it, B.A.," Murdock snapped. "I've about had it with your whole 'crazy fool' crap. Yes, I am crazy. But I am not a fool!"

"Did you just tell me to shove it?" B.A. said, getting up slowly. Face and Hannibal looked at each, alarmed. "Did I actually hear you say that to me?"

"I did. I actually did, you big ugly mudsucker, and I'll say it again. _Shove it_!"

B.A. started toward Murdock, who easily dodged him and vaulted over the seats. Frankie got out of the way as fast as he could, and the pilot continued to outwit the much larger sergeant, all while shouting "Shove it!" again and again and moving around the room, countering each of B.A.'s attacks with verbal jabs about B.A.'s fear of flying, his love of milk, and anything else he could come up with. There was even a comment about juvenile haircuts and the psychological implications of wearing so much jewelry.

"You are gonna get it, you crazy fool!" B.A. growled, lunging for Murdock again, but he simply wasn't quick enough. Size simply couldn't hold up against agility.

"I ain't had it in months, Baracus," Murdock heckled. "I'll never get it again, most likely." Finally, suddenly bored with the whole game, he flopped down next to Hannibal and peered at the colonel's crossword puzzle. B.A. stalked toward him, but Hannibal raised a warning finger, wagging it side to side.

"Sit down, B.A. Face, get him another carton of milk, will you?"

Looking relieved, Face went in search of the required liquid and B.A. sat down again, growling. Murdock pointed at a clue. "Millard Fillmore."

"What?"

"'First President born after the death of a former President'. It'd have to be Millard Fillmore, 'cause he was born three weeks after George Washington's death."

Hannibal stared at Murdock for a moment and finally wrote 'Fillmore' into the blocks. Murdock sat back, nodding, and watched the jet being fueled. Face returned with another carton of milk for B.A., who drank it down with one gulp, gave Murdock a murderous glare, and promptly keeled over, sound asleep before he even hit the floor.

"For somebody that big, he sure does have a fast reaction to those sleepy-time pills," Murdock said. "I had to take 'em, back at the VA, if I ever wanted to sleep, but they never got me that fast."

Hannibal pointed at another difficult puzzle clue. 'College Professor/Declaration Signer'. Murdock nodded. "John Witherspoon. Also the only clergyman." He looked at Hannibal. "Didn't you know that?"

The Colonel felt a headache coming on. "No, Murdock. I didn't." He rubbed his forehead and hoped Murdock never changed, but then again, he wished the captain were a little _less_ intelligent. Sometimes, it got downright scary.


	12. Chapter 12

**Title**: Cabrito

Part 12

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan

**Note**: I'm having to dig through some stuff about Savannah, Georgia. Will post the next chapter when I've got a good grip on it and actually write the bloody thing.

* * *

"Well, paint my toenails and call me Sally, we're finally _leaving_!"

Murdock wasn't paying close attention to his surroundings – he was pretty far beyond caring about details. It was almost six in the evening, there had been countless delays to their scheduled flight, and he had been hopping mad all day, with one thing or another going wrong. By the time he finally got to the Lear, he was completely discombobulated. Almost giddy with relief, he dashed up the steps and into plane.

He had always remembered to duck as he entered the cockpit. Today, however, he was so agitated that he forgot and smacked his forehead on the partition and saw purple flying saucers whizzing around. He plopped down in the pilot's seat and held his head for a moment, moaning in pain. "I don't care if I have I have to lie, cheat, steal or kill…by God, I am gonna fly this damned plane!" he yelled.

"Everything okay, Captain?" Hannibal called as he strapped himself in. Face and Frankie were busy grappling with an unconscious B.A. and were arguing about who had carried the heavy end last time. Murdock only gave Hannibal an absent nod and began going through a flight check.

"One day, I am gonna end up with a hernia. I just know it. And this guy is gonna pay the surgeon who fixes it!" Face gasped as they finally got B.A. strapped in. The slumbering Sergeant appeared to find Face's comment impertinent, as he fell forward and his forehead smacked right into the conman's chin. Face yowled with pain. "My bridgework!"

"Shaddup about your bridgework," Frankie said grouchily. "I know I slipped a disk." He glanced behind B.A.'s seat and smiled. Bridget, lying on her side and relatively comfortable on a pile of silk parachute suits, smiled up at him. She looked like a picture, dressed in jeans and a white cotton blouse, her feet in sandals. "Comfy?" he whispered.

"It may take a moment or two to get unfolded once we're up in the wild blue yonder, but I'm doing fine so far," she whispered back.

"All right, Murdock, we're in your hands now," Hannibal called over B.A.'s loud snoring. Face sat down across the aisle from Hannibal and gave him a thumbs up.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to Aggravation Airlines, where we are currently running _nine_ – count 'em! - hours behind schedule, the pilot is _seriously_ in need of blood pressure meds, and the food and beverage service consists of whatever you can find in the seats," Murdock snapped into the intercom. "We will begin taxiing down the runway soon and…my God, is that…no, surely not." He switched off the intercom and called the tower. "Are those goats on the runway? Freaking _goats_? Saanens! It's Saanen goats! I hate Saanen goats! Gimme Barbados, Swiss, Angora…but not Saanens!" His voice rose to a near scream of frustration. He had always hated Saanen goats, for reasons he wasn't entirely sure about. Goats in general creeped him out, with their square pupils and snarly attitudes and association with the occult. Today they were just another source of irritation.

The tower crackled back. "Yes, sir. How'd you know what breed they are? Anyhow, they got loose from a crate headed to Florida. Santaria cult sacrifices, from what we hear…"

Murdock rubbed his forehead, his headache getting even worse, if that was possible. "I don't care if they're headed to a Van Halen concert! Just shut up! Just shut up and clear 'em off! Surely y'all have…have goat-chasin' dawgs or somethin'! I've heard of dawgs bein' used to chase away geese and the like away from air fields. I've even heard of 'em usin' hawks!" He rubbed his throbbing temples. "Get the dawgs!"

The tower was silent for a moment, then there was a garbled reply, apparently in Spanish. Murdock shouted back in the same tongue, and his eyes bulging with only barely contained rage.

"That wasn't very nice, Captain," Hannibal said, shaking his head. "Such language."

Murdock's wild-eyed glare was met with only a warm smile from the first row.

"_Cabritos!_" Murdock yelled at nobody in particular. He struggled to get himself under control and contacted the tower again. "Listen. We need to get out of here. Where am I in the queue?"

"Sixth, sir," was the crisp reply.

"Sixth? I was third a while ago!"

"Maybe you shouldn't yell so much. And my mother would never do that with a donkey." (click)

Murdock threw the mike down and began cursing in Russian. It was, to his mind, the best language for colorful and truly vile profanity. He then switched to Farsi, when he had mastered while still at the VA, but Farsi seemed to lack the right tone. He finally tired of spewing invective and gave up – the tower giveth and the tower taketh away. He got back on the intercom. "In the obviously very likely event of an emergency, please pull your oxygen masks down and use them to cover your faces, so that your fellow passengers will not have to see your expressions of horror."

Hannibal grinned and went back to work on his crossword puzzle. In the past five hours, Murdock had zipped through six _New York Times_ crossword puzzles – in pen – while Hannibal had slogged his way through one and only with assistance from an increasingly irritable Murdock. "Hey, Murdock, what kind of marble is Michaelangelo's _David_ made of?"

"Carrara," Murdock answered very slowly, through clenched teeth.

Frankie looked back at Bridget, who was both alarmed and sleepy. "Go ahead and take a nap," he whispered. "It'll be a few more minutes."

"He sounds awfully upset," she whispered back. "He might need a session."

"He'll be all right," Frankie grinned. "Hang in there. Save the sessions for Savannah."

The wait was interminable, and to relieve his boredom and frustration, he began singing 'Leaving On a Jet Plane' at the top of his lungs. Bridget, from her position in the back of the plane, smiled. He had a fine singing voice, which hardly surprised her. But good heavens, he sounded like he was about to pop a vein.

She had been brought to the plane in a baggage cart, and helped inside by Frankie, who had sprinted across the tarmac while B.A. had been chasing Murdock around the waiting area. She had thought Face's plan absolutely preposterous, but after the past few days, preposterous sounded perfectly reasonable and frankly _fun _and she was more than willing to give it a try. The delays and annoyances of the day had put Captain Murdock in a terrible state, and she wondered if he was going to be as amenable to Face's plot as the rest of the men believed. He might not appreciate being manipulated that way.

But still – she could barely wait to see his face.

"_Other girls…they don't mean a thing…_" Murdock sang loudly, this time into the mike, which he knew would be irritating to the tower. But he was now first in line, and he was pushing the plane forward, ready for takeoff and cloudless skies, where he always felt so much better. Normal, even. In the pilot's seat, H.M. Murdock was perfectly rational. Even the wildest stunts, from back in his Thunderbird days, were somehow soothing to him. On the ground was where things tended to get kind of _difficult_. Particularly when goats were involved.

"…and away we go!" he yelled, and let out a Rebel yell as the plane lifted off the tarmac, causing Face and even Hannibal to cringe and Frankie to jerk with fright. Only Southerners could do rebel yells or sing "I'll Fly Away" properly, Murdock had pointed out one day, so many years ago, at some bar in Saigon. "We're flyin'! Over the rainbow, where happy little bluebirds fly and troubles melt like lemon drops, high above those chimney tops and I don't remember the rest. I always hated that movie."

"What is your favorite movie, Murdock?" Hannibal asked.

"I dunno. _Apocalypse Now_?"

"Good Lord, I hope not, Murdock." That movie made Face extremely uneasy.

"No. Besides, I never could picture myself playing 'Ride of the Valkyries' to scare the locals. I tried that once but got the wrong record and just confused 'em with 'Rubby Ducky'. But boy howdy, did that make 'em stop in their collective tracks." Murdock leveled the jet and sat back, relaxing. "Hey, Faceman, wanna take over the controls for a bit? I'm the mood for a nap. Or maybe a stroke."

"Er…really? You think I'm ready?"

"Well, hell, whatcha gonna run over out here? Goats? Just keep her level and pointed eastwards, away from the settin' sun. Watch for pterodactyls and jet airliners and we'll be fine." Murdock turned back to look at Peck, who was unbuckling himself nervously and standing up. He ducked into the cockpit and Murdock scooted into his seat, crossing his knees and snatching up a crossword puzzle. Hannibal watched him, his amusement mingling with vague resentment. Murdock was easily filling in blocks on the _Times_ puzzle. He looked down at his own attempt – he had filled in three so far. Damn.

After a while, Murdock grew tired of the puzzle and looked out the window, and was pleased to see the lights of Las Vegas below. Progress! He pulled the shade down, tugged his cap over his eyes and was asleep in a matter of moments. Face, at the controls, began to relax a little and glanced back at Hannibal.

"He's out?"

Hannibal waved his hand in front of Murdock's face. The pilot was indeed sound asleep. He grinned and stood up, signaling Frankie, who stood and went around to assist Bridget. "Feeling all right?" he asked her.

"I'm a little nervous," she admitted, stretching and massaging weary muscles. Her wait inside the plane had been long, but fairly comfortable. On the way across the tarmac, Frankie had given her an account of Murdock's rages that had sent Bridget into fits of laughter. She had known he possessed a temper, and was actually glad to see that he had one. She had no use for a man with nerves of wood.

"Well. Just sit down and wait for him to wake up. He'll either be glad to see you or he'll freak out. Or both. You never know," Hannibal said. He directed her to take a seat next to the sleeping pilot, and went back to his own seat and resumed working his puzzle. "Murdock is a mystery, wrapped up in an enigma."

"I thought that was the Middle East," Bridget pondered. "Or maybe Russia?"

"That, too." Hannibal grinned, pleased, and resumed his struggle with the puzzle. He was getting obsessed with the damned thing.

She watched Murdock sleep, amazed at how young he looked. He jerked slightly, and shifted in his seat, mumbling something in some other language – Mandarin, perhaps. He was so thin – if this plan worked out, she was certain he'd be eating fairly well in Savannah. There were little laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, but she hadn't seen him really smile in so long. She could only hope he would smile when he saw her.

* * *

Some sound woke him, or maybe it was that dream about his three days in Tokyo, wandering through the bewildering and butt-ugly city, trying to find something to eat that didn't involve tentacles or salamanders the size of Cocker Spaniel puppies. He looked at the pilot's seat, and saw Face sitting there, fairly relaxed. The sky was deep blue-black, stars so big and bright he could almost reach out and touch them. Murdock sat up a little, and stretched his tired muscles – a day full of agitation had taken its toll. He pushed the shade back up and looked out at the sky. After a few moments, he located Orion's Belt. Then he turned his head to ask if Hannibal had made any progress on his puzzle, and jumped out of his seat and banged his head _hard_ when he saw Bridget sitting there, watching him cautiously.

Everyone except Face was asleep. At first, Murdock thought he must still be asleep, and dreaming. He had dreamed about her enough in the past few months. He had refused to think about the dreams when he was awake, pushing them away, berating himself for being such a damned, completely besotted fool. He would rather be having nightmares, really – at least the nightmares weren't about something forbidden to him, and completely out of his reach.

"What are you doing here?" he asked her quietly, his dignity still not completely recovered. _You're just dreaming. A nice dream, really. She's here, and you can say whatever you like. You can sprout wings and fly. You can go back to Texas and Grandpa and Granny Emma are there and she's made fried chicken and we're all under the oak tree, spitting watermelon seeds and discussing Seneca. You can think that Bridget Monroe is interested in crazy._

His grandmother would have thoroughly approved of Bridget Monroe. She had merely tolerated his girlfriend in school, and had not liked the girl he'd dated in college – the one who had become his first lover. He couldn't imagine Emma saying Bridget was 'as common as hog tracks'.

"Hitching a ride," she answered softly, still watching him carefully.

"Ah." He nodded. "How come I didn't see you?"

"You've been in kind of a state these past few hours," she pointed out. "It was all part of a cunning plan, actually…though I can say with complete honesty that the goats were _not_ part of said plan. I was stashed away in the back of the plane. You're a very good singer, by the way."

He sat up straight, straightening his cap and looking at her suspiciously. "Thanks. And you stowed away so…so you could…uh…be with…with Face." He nodded. "Well…that's…"

"For such an intelligent man, Captain Murdock, you can be awfully dense." She picked up his nearly finished crossword puzzle, blanched when she saw the clues, and looked at him. "Why would I want to be with Lieutenant Peck?"

"Well…hell…c'mon…" He gestured at Face, who didn't even seem to hear their conversation.

"He's not my type," she pointed out. "I'm just going to Savannah. Lieutenant Peck thought it would be an excellent idea for yourself and him to fly me there from D.C. You would be amendable to that idea, correct?"

"Amenable?" He pondered the notion. "I don't guess it'd be any trouble. Not like I'm doin' much of anything for the rest of my life…" He trailed off, still a bit lost. "So you did…stow away?"

"In a purely semantic sense. Gonna report me to the ship's captain?"

"I _am _the ship's captain, I'm completely anti-semantic, and no…I don't mind. I don't mind a bit." He smiled a little, and called himself a masochist again.

"Good. Tell me…what was the name of Napoleon's favorite warhorse?" She tapped the puzzle.

"Marengo."

She entered the letters into the blocks and smiled. "Have you ever been to Savannah, Captain Murdock?"

"No, ma'am. Not that I recall." He had never had any reason to go to Savannah.

"You'll love it. It's a beautiful city. Perhaps you and Lieutenant Peck will let me give you a guided tour? There's horse-drawn carriages, and so many old mansions and…"

He was watching her mouth, forgetting to listen but hearing every word and enjoying that delicious accent. He was remembering how sweet her lips tasted. How soft they had been, and how warm. As she spoke, he thought about how good it would be to kiss her again, to hold her in his arms and tell her everything – the whole awful story of his life. Hell, he'd even tell her his full name.

"Captain?"

"Hm?" He finally raised his eyes to her eyes and reddened. He hadn't heard anything she'd said in quite a while. This woman's mouth could hypnotize a man. "Yes…I mean, uh…right. Of course!"

"You _like_ pickled pigs' feet?"

"I do?" he gasped, appalled. Her eyebrow lifted, and he rubbed his eyes. "Uh…no. They're horrible. Unspeakable. An abomination, like…like the music of Gary U.S. Bonds."

"Riiiight…" She shook her head, smiling.

"I do like haggis, though. Ever had that?"

"Good heavens…are you crazy?" she asked him, looking horrified, and then apologetic for asking such a question.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

There was a snicker from their left, and they both looked over at Hannibal, who was listening to their conversation and grinning. "I see Sleeping Beauty has awakened."

"Erm…yeah. Wide awake. Nice of y'all to tell me she had stowed away," Murdock said, slouching back in his seat again, trying to take some pressure off his tailbone. Bridget gave Hannibal a secret little smile.

"It slipped our minds," Hannibal shrugged. "Hey, Murdock, who was the American General who accepted Cornwallis' surrender at Yorktown? Washington doesn't fit. Too many letters."

"Lincoln," Murdock answered. "He accepted because Cornwallis sent his second in command, claiming illness."

"And who was _that_?" Hannibal asked, curious.

"General Charles O'Hara." Murdock glared at Hannibal. "He offered the sword to Rochambeau, who refused it and signaled for him to give it to Washington, but Washington wouldn't take it from Cornwallis' representative, so he told O'Hara to give it to Lincoln, whom Cornwallis had humiliated at the siege of Charleston, and what am I these days, Crossword Puzzle Man?"

"It would be appear to be the case," Face said from the cockpit. "You're definitely a puzzle, anyway, Murdock."

Murdock contemplated throwing his hat at Face, but decided that would be both an indication of seething jealousy and could also cause the lieutenant to freak out and crash the plane. So he pulled the cap down over his eyes again, took a brief look at Bridget's denim-encased legs and tried to get some more sleep. He dreamed of violets and of her soft skin against his own, and knew he wouldn't wake up screaming.


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Free Bird

Part 13

Rating: K+

Author: AlyshebaFan

* * *

The flight was remarkably uneventful, which in itself scared Murdock half to death. Just before dawn, Murdock took over the controls again and Face took his seat, beside Bridget. The pilot pretended he didn't overhear them chatting, but when they finally landed and taxied to a stop, he had a hard time getting his hands to let go of the yoke and his jaw hurt from clenching it so tightly. There was a definite tic affecting his vision, and he suspected his blood pressure was probably so high it was a wonder he wasn't in a coma.

Up until recently, Murdock had considered himself to be fairly secure, so far as his _ego_ was concerned. He had been raised by people who genuinely loved and cared for him, and if other folks back home had not accepted him, his grandparents certainly had. He had never before experienced jealousy, but he was very definitely feeling it now, and it was an unpleasant experience.

Yeah, so you're jealous, he thought. Get over it. She wants to go to Savannah and kibbitz with Face around the town. So be it. I'll stay at her parents' house and get sot drunk on moonshine. Just keep me away from the gun cabinet and I'll be fine.

Bridget was very quiet as they finally climbed down from the plane and began sorting through their things. Murdock was relieved to see that his suitcase was in there after all, and gave Frankie a quizzical look, but forgot about his questions when B.A. came to with a loud shout. "Hey! Where am I?"

"In Virginia," Murdock told him. B.A. glowered at him, but trying to look threatening wasn't easy from a supine position, as he'd been hauled onto a baggage cart and left to bake in the morning sun by Face and Frankie, both of whom had had quite enough. Murdock helped him up and out of the cart, and B.A. stood for a moment, weaving a little as he readjusted to standing on solid ground again. "At least _you_ got a good nights' sleep. I'm goin' home and goin' to bed m'self."

"No dice there, Captain," Hannibal told him. "You and Face are leaving right now. Bridget is expected home in just a few hours, and Stockwell has heard we've come back. He's at the airport now." Hannibal lifted his chin toward a group of displeased-looking Ables standing near the gate, arms crossed but looking about as menacing as the Beatles.

"But I've been wearin' the same clothes since night before last!" Murdock objected. "I smell like roadkill, for God's sake, Hannibal…c'mon. Just let me sleep for a few hours, huh? Please?"

"Sorry, Captain. Orders. Go." Hannibal jabbed his cigar in the direction of the Lear, and Murdock groaned. Face and Bridget were standing on the tarmac, talking easily with each other, and Murdock felt like kicking something. Right about now, he could kick a kitten through a propeller. Frowning at his two passengers and muttering a prayer for _patience_, he gave up on any degree of peace for the next several hours and went back aboard the plane.

* * *

"He seems all right. Tired, but…was it really the plan to get him so agitated?"

"We want him to be as off-balance as possible," Face reminded Bridget. "You'll probably have to corner him to get him to really talk to you, but once I'm out of the picture it'll be easier. He's so jealous right now it's a wonder he's not green."

"He's _hurting_, Templeton," she said softly. He sobered a little, and nodded.

"Yeah. I know. That's the only tough part about this – but the payoff will be all the better, won't it? Just reel him in. Take your time, don't push him. We never push Murdock. Ever. Not even B.A. would dare to. And we never tease him about anything…though I suspect he could probably handle it okay, but we just don't. I guess 'cause we're the only people who really don't."

"So how does this all go again?" she asked him as they started up the stairs to the Lear's door.

"We drive Captain H.M. Murdock to complete distraction," Face grinned at her and let her inside first. Murdock was already at the controls, checking things over and singing 'Bohemian Rhapsody' with perhaps a little too much vigor.

"Tower, this is E07-649erJ. Any goats on the runway?"

"Huh?"

"Fuel tank is being refilled to max?"

"Aye, aye."

"Hot damn, that's the best news I've heard all day."

"What?"

"Never mind. Requesting clearance."

"ETA twenty minutes. Almost finished with fueling."

"Yeah, whatever. Just wake me up when I'm clear." Murdock tipped back a little in the seat, pulled his cap down over his eyes and took a nap. Face and Bridget observed him for a moment, wary, aware that he might be faking. But when Face finally balled up a small piece of paper and threw it at the pilot, who didn't even flinch when it bounced off his head.

"His mood's improving a little," she whispered. "He's so tired, Templeton. I hate seeing him like that. His nerves are _frayed_."

"He needs to be completely irrational by the time we get to your parents' house," Face said firmly. "When he's in that kind of state, he's bound to blurt out all kinds of stuff."

Bridget looked at Murdock again, but his head was down, chin on his chest, sound asleep. "Could I ask you a question?"

"Yeah, sure." Face picked up a crossword puzzle, saw the first clue ('Name of Cleopatra's eldest son') and winced. He put the puzzle down and looked at her.

"Do you think he's…oh, God this is so egotistical of me, but I can't help it – do you think he's really…_interested_ in me? Your own personal opinion."

"Bridget, he's practically growing horns. But it's not just _that_. He in very deep smit." Face told her. "And right now, I'd say he's crazy with jealousy. And I can also say for sure that he'd make a great husband and father some day." He flashed her one of his patented grins. "Otherwise, we wouldn't have done this at all."

"Husband? Father? That's a big step," she said, blushing and smiling in spite of herself. "But why do you say that?"

"Because if H.M. Murdock ever let himself love somebody, he'd love 'em one-hundred percent, totally faithful and devoted, and he's never get tired of his kids, or even annoyed with them, because he's really a big kid himself, and has an understanding heart, so when a kid messes up, he'd be pretty calm about it. But I can tell you this – if he ever got his heart broken, I'm not really sure he'd recover."

Bridget agreed with that, and the notion frightened her more than a little. "You don't even know me that well, Templeton. Who knows but that I'm just a calculating gold digger, or that I'll just dump him or…"

"But you're not, and you wouldn't. You've got it bad, Bridg'. Best you can do is just give in and take your chances." Face tried to find something else to read, as the puzzle was beyond his abilities.

* * *

The mike buzzed and Murdock nearly jumped out of his seat, yelling "I didn't touch it, I swear!" He was gasping with fright, looking around, clearly not sure where he was. But he finally regained his cool – or what little was left of it – and sat down again. Bridget and Face looked at each other, wondering. "We're clear?"

"Yeppers, but some guy in an expensive suit is here, and he wants to speak with ya. Would you…hey, give that ba-…"

Stockwell's angry voice came through then. "Captain Murdock! You will get out of that plane this instant!"

"Sorry, sir, but I got the blues for Dixie, and there ain't a train 'round here, so we's headin' down to the land of cotton, where old times ain't near as rotten as they are here in this damned ol' Yankee land!" He shut off the mike and began taxiing forward. He pedaled expertly to the left, turning away from a limousine that was pulling onto the tarmac. The Ables got out, but they could do nothing to stop the jet from turning onto the empty lane. "Anybody know the words to 'Free Bird'?"

"They've slipped my mind," Face said, gripping the arms of his seat and trying not to look as nervous as he felt. Bridget, however, was completely calm. She strapped on her seatbelt and stretched her legs out, perfectly at ease with Murdock at the controls.

Murdock gave up on 'Free Bird' and instead, as the plane left the ground, sang what he knew of 'Learning to Fly'.

Into the distance, a ribbon of black  
Stretched to the point of no turning back  
A flight of fancy on a windswept field  
Standing alone my senses reeled  
Fatal attraction is holding me fast,  
How can I escape this irresistible grasp?

Can't keep my eyes from the circling skies  
Tongue-tied and twisted

Just an earth-bound misfit…

He couldn't remember any more of the song – Pink Floyd had always been a tad too weird for him anyway, which was saying a lot. "Yeah, that's me. Misfit. Never did fit into those damned round holes. I couldn't even pass the Rorschach tests." He contacted the tower again. "Hey, Stockwell? Still there, General?" Stockwell's response was very definitely from the Old English and not at all polite. Murdock only snickered. "I know you won't cause any trouble 'bout this little excursion. 'Cause you don't want any trouble, eh?"

"Captain Murdock, I'm warning you…"

"I just warned _you_, you duplicitous wretch. Remember what I told you a few months ago? Eh?" He lowered his voice a little. "I've still got some useful phone numbers."

There was a tense silence, and finally Stockwell responded. "Fine, Captain. Colonel Smith has reported to me that the mission was accomplished, and that you and Lieutenant Peck are only being _polite_ by escorting someone back home to Georgia."

"Right. And as a favor to you, I promise I won't wreck your plane. Over'n out." He switched off the mike again and settled in for a short flight to Savannah.

* * *

"Ah, summer in the Deep South," Face said. "Does the air conditioner in this thing work?"

Bridget, accustomed to such exhausting heat, applied a cold can of Coke to her wrist and glanced at Murdock via the rear view mirror. He was sitting back there looking like he was on his way to his own execution. The Jeep she had rented at the airport was the least expensive thing she'd been able to find, and in spite of Templeton and Captain Murdock both trying to pay for it, she had refused their offers. She was starting to rethink that decision, as the air conditioner seemed a little less than helpful.

"Let's just roll the windows down," she finally suggested. "Captain Murdock, are you all right?" she asked him, concerned. He looked pale.

"He hates riding in the back seat," Face informed her, getting a withering look from the weary pilot. They had hit a little turbulence over eastern Tennessee and it had taken a lot out of Murdock, who had had to apply a great deal of skill toward keeping the plane stable – his exhaustion had made it hard enough, and so now his stomach was doing flips and he wanted a freezing room and a bottle of Cold Duck. Face and Bridget sitting back there giggling had not helped his state of mind, either.

"He looks _green_," Bridget whispered. She pulled over and watched sadly as Murdock stumbled out of the Jeep and lost his last meal in the johnson grass. Face got out and kindly patted his back and waited for the captain to finish, murmuring quietly to him. Murdock finally straightened and stood up, but he looked twice as exhausted as before. He let Face guide him back to the Jeep and he stretched out in the back seat, too tired and miserable to be embarrassed any more. He just wanted to die.

"We'll be at my house in about twenty minutes, Captain," she told Murdock, who only kind of lurched a little and moaned something in German. "Do you think you'll be okay?"

"I'll survive. I always do," he answered hoarsely.

* * *

Bridget, Peck and an exhausted and bleary-eyed Murdock arrived at the Monroe house at lunchtime. She pulled into the drive, and they all looked up at the vast brick mansion. It had been built in the early 1800's, and had been made to stand the tests of time. Georgian in architecture, as gracious and elegant as an elderly Southern belle, and just as tough, it was pretty and inviting rather than imposing. The house was surrounded by huge oaks and magnolias, which were in full summer bloom. The Monroe House was a tourist attraction, and as they sat in the Jeep, a horse-drawn carriage trundled by, pulled by an impatient chestnut, and the guide pointed at the mansion. "That's the Monroe House. One of the oldest in Savannah, and one of the few that is still owned by the original family...slow down, Bing… It is also one of the few mansions in town _not_ haunted, and no Union generals ever stayed here…"

"We would never have tolerated it," Bridget told Face, who laughed. "In fact, according to family legend, I have an ancestor who burned her house down rather than let British generals occupy her home during the Revolution. She was that stubborn."

"I think that's called 'cutting off your nose to spite your face'," Murdock pointed out from the back seat, where he was finally sitting up. He was no less green around the gills, though.

"Well, she only managed to spite the British," Bridget answered, glancing back at him. He shrugged and climbed out of the Jeep. He nearly jumped back in, however, when a group of exuberant people poured out of the door under the carport and rushed up to the car.

"Bridget! My baby!" A tall, willowy and very beautiful dark-haired woman threw her arms around Bridget and hugged the redhead so tightly that she started gasping.

"Mama, you're choking me."

Victoria Monroe burst into tears for about the thousandth time that morning and finally let her daughter go. "Oh, Lord have mercy…John, get her luggage…look at you. You look so tired, darlin'. So tired. Come in where it's air conditioned, all of y'all."

Bridget accepted the warm hugs of her brothers, and finally her father, who picked her up and whirled her around.

"Good God, I hope he doesn't do that to me," Murdock murmured to Face. Taylor Monroe put his daughter down and looked at her carefully.

"You don't look much worse for wear, I don't reckon. Your mama figured you'd come home lookin' like you'd just wandered out of Auschwitz." Monroe was a tall, aristocratic-looking man, and a former Marine. He looked over Bridget's shoulders at Face and Murdock. He clearly didn't know exactly what to make of either of them.

"I wasn't…well, it was bad. But I came out of it okay, I think. And these men…" She gestured back to Face and Murdock, who were standing together and ready to run if Victoria came at them with any more choking hugs. "These men had the rougher end of things."

"Well, actually, Murdock here wasn't involved in the rescue operation, but he has been at the yoke of a Lear jet for about the last twenty-four hours, so he really needs some rest," Face said, gesturing to Murdock, who rolled his eyes and would have vehemently denied feeling dizzy to anyone who asked him, and would have also been lying through his teeth.

"Do y'all have any, say, alcohol in your house?" Murdock asked.

"No, sir. We're strict teetotalers," Taylor informed Murdock, nodding firmly.

The pilot's shoulders sagged. "Okay. Where's your coldest room?"

"Walk-in freezer, I guess," Taylor said, looking at him curiously. "You don't look too good, son. You all right?"

Murdock answered by losing his second-to-last meal in a pot of geraniums, to the shock and mild bemusement of his hosts. Taylor glanced up and saw another buggy roll by. He waved at the tourists and helped Face half carry, half drag Murdock into the house. Murdock's last thought, as he was more or less thrown onto a bed and left to sleep it off, was that he had definitely made a lasting impression on the Monroe family, and very likely their geraniums.


	14. Chapter 14

**Title**: Pinch

Chapter 14

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan

**Note**: Weary eyes make strange titles. For some reason, this story title got changed in my computer from 'Dark Side of the Moon' to 'Dark Side of the Room'. I dunno. That might be an even better title.

* * *

It was dark outside, and for a few moments Murdock had no inkling of where he was or how he'd got there. The room smelled like jasmine, which took him right back to his childhood. He sat up, looking around the room, half expecting to see his grandmother sitting there, waiting for him to wake so she could give him his medicine, as she always did when he was sick. Emma would sit up with him all night if she had to, never leaving his side, when some illness struck him. She had all kinds of remedies for upset stomach – peppermint, ginger, and worst of all, that horrible black castor oil when he was _really_ sick. That stuff had made him run away and hide, but it also had always helped.

Then he remembered and pulled the blanket back over his head. He lay there for several minutes, hearing not even the smallest sound, and that reminded him of Quiet Hour at the VA, when the patients were all expected to be on their best behavior and absolutely silent, mainly so the staff could finally take their own medicine and beat off their headaches. Usually, he had cooperated unless he was in a musical mood, or was just feeling recalcitrant (his grandmother's _favorite_ word to describe virtually any Murdock she ever met) and he'd start making a racket and the orderlies would come running.

The room was cool, and his stomach was calm. He stared at the ceiling and remembered tossing his cookies into a pot of geraniums, and Bridget's wide-eyed shock, Face's searching look and his own embarrassment. He vaguely recalled several people hauling him upstairs, and of someone removing his bomber jacket and his shoes. But a distinct memory came up and made him squeeze his eyes shut – a warm, soft hand caressing his cheek. When had that happened? Or had it just been a dream? It hadn't been his grandmother's work-roughened hand, anyway.

He scrambled out of the bed and crept out into the hallway. A long, thick runner carpet led to the landing, and down a curving staircase. Several doors led into various rooms, and Murdock remembered going into a sperm clinic once with Face, as part of some scam, and Face warning him not to open any doors. So he didn't this time, either. Instead, he went in search of some food. He thought it odd that he felt hungry now, but he was famished.

Murdock followed his nose once he was downstairs, and a tall and unnerving grandfather clock informed him that it was past midnight. Damn, had he slept that long? He looked around the graciously decorated rooms – all antiques, tasteful art on the walls, including portraits of stern-looking ancestors who also didn't drink alcohol, and well-bred hush. He paused to peek inside a large book-infested library, and couldn't resist his urge to see what all was in there. He slipped into the room and looked around, his love of books overcoming his need for rations. Leather-bound first editions, hardback Westerns, huge, old and laughably inaccurate mapbooks (though frankly he thought that turning California into an island had its merits), and biographies of great generals and monarchs. He flipped through Churchill's _Marlborough_, which he had read back in Nam, and Federico Tesio's incomparable but enigmatic _Breeding the Racehorse_ caught his eye, and he pulled it out to flip through the pages. He had read the book every year, just before the Derby, and had the same conclusion about breeding good racehorses as he did on nearly every subject aside from flight: nobody _knows_ a damn thing, and much like flight, it involved a hell of a lot of luck.

Only his growling stomach kept him from sitting down and reading a Zane Grey novel. He took a path down a long hallway, through a huge dining room, down another flagstone floored hallway and finally found the kitchen. It was huge, and very modern, with all the latest gizmos and bewildering contraptions that could also quite conceivably serve as sex toys, if enough imagination was applied.

He felt like a kid – playing briefly with a lemon zester, an apple corer, and, of course, a melon baller, before heading to the huge refrigerator. He found a bottle of milk and some ham and cheese, and was not surprised to see home-made mayonnaise in there as well. He snatched that up and after only a brief search found some homemade bread and began slapping sandwiches together. Sitting down at the big breakfast table, he found an old cookbook and began flipping through pages, eating while he read about Virginia spoon bread and sweet potato pie.

"I see you're finally up and about."

Murdock spilled his milk and took a couple of minutes to reel his heart back down from the light fixture above his head. After recovering, he looked up to see Bridget standing in the doorway, looking amused. She was wearing a light blue silk bathrobe over what looked like a white cotton nightie. _Great. Why don't you just kill me now?_

"Hi." He went to the sink and snatched up a dishtowel, and began cleaning up the spilled milk. "Funny how a glass of spilled milk can seem like _ten_ glasses of milk."

She laughed. "Very true."

"I've been asleep since…well, a long time. And I'm sorry about the geranium."

"Yes, you have been asleep a while, but you earned it, and don't worry about the flowers. You were obviously quite exhausted." Bridget poured herself a glass of milk and refilled Murdock's. "And a little sick, too."

"Too much flying…and I have a bad stomach anyway. Too many pills over the years, I guess." He sat down again and felt nerves fray as Bridget headed to the cabinets below the sink. "I didn't…er…wake you…"

"No, of course not. I was already awake. Had the munchies. Do you know we have a secret stash of cookies?" She gave him a mischievous smile and retrieved a small box. She brought it to the table and sat down. He peeked inside and grinned when he saw they were chocolate chip.

"No nuts?"

"Are you allergic?"

"Nope." He snatched a few out and dipped one in his glass of milk. "I just prefer chocolate chip cookies in their purest form...their natural state. I don't even like 'em with M&M's or peanut butter chips or the like. Just plain old Hershey chips."

"Good. Me too."

Bridget dipped a cookie in her milk and ate hers, and she looked just like a little kid herself, holding her glass of milk with both hands as she drank. But his thoughts wandered as she wiped the milk moustache away – this was no child. She was far too curvy, far too soft and sweet – she was very definitely a grown-up. He had felt that when he'd held her in his arms, even if it had been very brief. And he was extremely glad that he was sitting down. _Damn_. No woman had ever made him react this way. Murdock tried to talk himself into believing that his desire for Bridget was purely physical. He was, after all, in all respects a physically normal, healthy man. His only problem was that the demons were still chasing each other around his head, though they were doing that a lot less lately. But they were still there, waiting for any opportunity. _When one demon is cast out, it travels hither and yon, and finding no place to stay, goes back to its former place to find it swept clean and empty, and so he brings ten more demons with him to take up the space again._

"Uh…I never did ask you if you were…or maybe I did ask you, I don't remember. But…you're okay? No…uh…flashbacks or anything like that? Nightmares?" He drank down his milk in one swig and went to refill his glass, forcing his hands to stop shaking. She smiled indulgently and shook her head.

"Not really. I think I'm recovering pretty well. Had a long talk with my mom…but I think I will at least sit down with a therapist and go over some _issues_ that might linger. You know – fear, entrapment, the unknown…all that." She watched him sit down again and smiled at his T-shirt, which read 'If You Can Read This, You're Standing Too Close'.

"Yeah, I know about fear." He nodded and dipped another cookie into his milk.

"Do you?" she asked him softly. "What kind of fear?"

"Uh…you know…just…er…does your mom bake these cookies?"

"Yes, and then she hides them from my father, and don't change the subject."

"I'm not…I just don't talk about that."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't."

"So you don't trust me?"

He started and looked away, fighting his urge to just let it all out – tell her everything, from the start. Every ugly detail of what had happened so long ago, and how things had gone from just kind of _off_ before, to his needing to be committed, and all that had happened in between. They had been right that he had needed help, so long ago, and that he could never have endured the trial and imprisonment. Murdock had, even then, joked – his mind already starting to twist away from rational thought processes and _normal_ reactions – that he could never have stood prison, particularly if the other inmates found out how much he loved to dance, but when he'd said that to the other team members, he had seen tears in Face's eyes and had fallen apart. Sat there and cried, until he was drained and just gave in, knowing it was for the best. He wouldn't have to testify. Wouldn't have to have his rank stripped away, or his honors, and that he wouldn't even be dishonorably discharged. Just…put away. Out to pasture, with a lot of other broken down, damaged, brilliant Thoroughbreds who were too fast and had burned themselves out too soon. He had thought of that analogy one day, long ago, after his romance with Kelly Stevens had sputtered and died. _Not even fit for stud service. It might be hereditary. Kids'd be lighting fast, like flashes across the sky, but untrainable._ He had told himself that, believing that Kelly felt the same way. It had been too much for her. Way too much. But that didn't make it hurt any less, even years later.

"I don't really trust anyone. Not with that. Don't take it personally. I've never even told Face about it. Not even Hannibal really knows. Nobody knows. Frankly, a lot of it is classified. Technically, I was still just a kid when it happened…could…could I just have some more cookies, please?"

She sighed and got some more out of the box. She held one out to him, and he cautiously reached for it, and their fingers brushed as he took it. Her green eyes finally met his, and he leaned forward in his chair, trying to find the right words. _Just tell her. Tell her, you crazy fool!_

"You know, I've been trying to figure you out for so long," she told him, and his words died and turned to so much dust in his mouth before he could get them formed properly. "Trying to understand it all, and not just as a psychologist. I mean, initially that was my job. I was supposed to try and figure out what was happening in there," she nodded, indicating his head. "But the day I met you, I knew you were different. Very, very different. And I knew that underneath that big smile and all that joking around and those antics, you were utterly and completely _miserable_. It's as though you're trapped in there, Captain. Inside a mind that won't _stop_, and a bunch of demons you can't get rid of…or maybe you won't get rid of them. Maybe you think that's how it should be. Some kind of self-imposed punishment, maybe."

He sat back, startled, and started to speak, but she cut him off with a karate chop gesture, and he realized she was frustrated with him, and he didn't know what to say. For the first time in his life, he was speechless.

"And as hard as I tried, I couldn't get you to really open up to me. You feigned all that _insanity_ quite well, but it didn't take me that long to figure out that you were just a fraud, Captain. A brilliant actor – Dr Richter said that, too, and I thought he was practically a fan of yours, and no longer just your doctor, but now I know he was right. You're a _fake_."

"But I am…"

She cut him off again, sharply. "Maybe a little. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder can certainly make a person seem off, particularly if they refuse to face the trauma and _deal_ with it. You don't deal with it. I don't think you ever will." She drank down the rest of her milk and closed the box of cookies. "If you ever do, Captain, I'd like to know about it, but I will _not_ play along any more." She stood and started to leave, but he jumped up and caught her arm.

"Bridget, please…please, I don't…I just…you don't understand. Nobody can really…I…please…" He was just stammering, like some crazed, lovesick fool. He couldn't even tell her how he felt. He could hear those demons laughing at him now.

She shook her head. "Lieutenant Peck and I are going for a drive tomorrow, out to the old plantation. Do you want to come along or not? I'm only asking you because he wants you to come along. _Otherwise_, it would just be Templeton and I, _alone_."

"Bridget…don't think that because I can't…or won't…talk about this that it's because I don't trust you," he said desperately. "I do trust you. I do."

"But apparently not enough, Captain." She pulled her arm away and left him alone. Murdock went back to the table and sat down, wishing to God that the glass of milk in front of him was something a lot harder.

* * *

Murdock didn't sleep at all, for the rest of the night, and was up at the crack of dawn, staring out the window. He was determined to be as _up_ as he could be – he'd behave as though everything was just fine, that he was happy. He waited in his room until he smelled bacon frying and couldn't bear it any more. With little appetite and a lot of trepidation, he made his way downstairs and was greeted at the landing by four large men, who regarded him with interest – not hostility, or even really welcome. Just…cool curiosity.

"Uh…hi."

"You're Murdock, right? H.M. Murdock?"

"Right. Captain. Captain H.M. Murdock." Oh God, he thought, looking at all the large pieces of furniture they might use on him. What's gonna happen here? Do they think I'm…

"Nice to meet ya, man. You and your friends rescued our baby sister, I hear. I'm John Monroe. This is George… Robert…and James…of course." He gestured to his brothers, who all shook Murdock's hand in turn. "Mama's makin' breakfast – I hope you're hungry."

"Good. Right. That's good. Thanks…" Murdock followed the four men into the kitchen and his stomach tightened when he saw Bridget and Face sitting at the table together, laughing about something. The urge to leap across the table and begin strangling his best friend had to be beaten down with great force, and he joined everyone at the table.

Face flashed Murdock a brilliant grin and nodded. "Murdock, you remember the time B.A. called you…er…_that_?"

Murdock frowned. "Not really appropo, _Templeton_, considering where we are."

"I'm sure they can handle it," Face grinned. "See, we're in this little bar in Laos, not too long after we all met, and B.A.'s goin' after Murdock for some stunt he'd pulled – flying a helicopter upside down, actually – and he calls Murdock a son of a bitch. Well, for about five seconds, you coulda heard a pin drop. Then B.A.'s out cold on the floor and Murdock is sayin', 'Nobody talks that way about my Mama'. Ever since then, B.A. does _not_ besmirch the name of Claudia Murdock, and nobody else would ever dare to, either."

"You flew a _helicopter_ upside down?" John asked, looking at Murdock in astonishment.

"I was young and firm, and a little angry at the world back then. Like most any twenty-year old, I guess, and I liked showin' off for the ladies. That particular lady at the time _was_ rather impressed. Besides, it's not that hard." Murdock took a sip of his coffee, a bittersweet memory coming back to him. The lady was long dead, killed by a sniper's bullet. _Nobody loses his mind after a tragedy. The tragedy is just the spark that sets off the dynamite that's been piled up for years, waiting to explode. _She had told him that. Not too long before she had died. _She_ had known. She had discovered the powder keg inside Murdock, but strangely, she hadn't been the least bit afraid of him. He suspected she had even loved him.

Victoria Monroe stared at him, then looked at her daughter, raising her eyebrows.

Bridget swallowed nervously and took a deep breath. "We're going up to Willow Bend today," she informed everyone. "Uh…Templeton and Captain Murdock and…and I, that is. I suspect we'll spend the night up there, too."

Victoria paled, visibly upset. "Sweetheart, I'm not sure I-"

"It'll be a very pleasant diversion, I think," Bridget said, a little too firmly, cutting off her mother's uneasy objections. Taylor Monroe looked at Peck, and frowned.

"I know everyone will behave very…circumspectly," he said, like any father of any daughter.

"We'll be circumspectin' ourselves all over God's creation," Murdock muttered into his coffee cup and accepted some bacon and eggs from Victoria, who looked at her daughter again, obviously concerned.

"Yes, we will be on our best behavior. Hasn't always been the case, I admit," Face explained cheerfully. "You know, Murdock here does have a past," Face grinned. His smile slipped when he caught Murdock's murderous glare.

"That's very true. I do. But I didn't need penicillin to get through it." He took another swig of his coffee, letting the hot liquid burn away his bitterness. He put Face at ease by grinning at him, but the smile didn't touch his eyes at all. "What time do we leave?"

"Soon," Bridget said. She got up and left, without even asking to be excused. Her parents looked at each other, surprised, and Face got up, following her out. Murdock remained at the table with Bridget's family, and proceeded to lay on the charm. It was a performance worthy of Olivier, and they all bought it, hook, line and sinker. Even Taylor was laughing by the time he was through.

Murdock even bought it too.

* * *

Willow Creek Plantation was even older than Savannah, Bridget told the men as they drove north. It had been established by Bridget's mother's Huguenot ancestors, who had moved inland so they could practice their faith in peace, when they had come to Virginia from France in 1711. There had never been slaves on the plantation, as the family had been vehemently opposed to the practice. Instead, they had hired freedmen and built a huge, rambling house on a dramatic hill overlooking a surprisingly deep creek, called Willow Bend. Over generations, it had remained a bustling farm, and the family raised cotton and indigo and survived the Revolutionary War and the Civil War without much interruption. Nearby was the small, sleepy town of Willow Bend, and Bridget pointed out the homes of many of her relatives as they passed by, and the old cemetery where so many of her Beauville ancestors lay.

"Red dirt roads – I was hoping I'd see some soon," Face told Bridget as they pulled through the gates and moved down the long carriage drive. The house hove into view and he whistled in admiration. "Now _that's_ what Margaret Mitchell was talkin' about!"

"Yeah, Scarlett O'Hara, eat your heart out," she laughed. Murdock, sitting in the back seat, admired the solid, graceful lines of the old house and got out as soon as the car stopped. He looked up at the house, with his full wrap-around porch and the veranda held up by thick Corinthian columns. Weeping cherry trees had lined the carriage-way, but the house itself was surrounded by magnolias, dogwoods and oaks. A tangle of wisteria vine was doing its best to take over the west side of the front porch, its beautiful blooms having finally died off in the summer heat.

Out of _your_ league, he thought as he walked up the stone path to the front door. Face and Bridget followed, arm in arm and laughing, and Murdock felt another wave of misery wash over him. Another beautiful woman, never his. He let Bridget open the door, and flinched when she looked directly at him, her expression sad. She pushed the door open and they all peered into the front hall. "Welcome to Willow Bend," she said.

The house was even more arresting inside, despite all the furniture covered with white sheets and the chandelier in the foyer wrapped up. The marble floor was embellished with a compass symbol, and Murdock smiled when he saw that the south point was marker, rather than north. Of course. There was a pair of curving staircases, and at the top of the stairs, in the center of the upper hallway, glaring down at them with clear disapproval, was a large portrait of President James Monroe.

"We are related," Bridget said. "His uncle was a direct ancestor," she told them with a shrug.

"He looks…constipated," Face said, without thinking. Bridget and Murdock both gave him an appalled look. She finally rolled her eyes and led them on a tour of the huge mansion, comfortable in the role as guide. Upstairs, she directed them to the rooms they would be using. Murdock's was called the Tartan Suite, which was overcome with torpor-inducing Monroe tartan. Tartan patterns covered the walls, the chairs, and the bedspread. He visibly winced when he saw it, and wondered if the Monroes and the Murdochs of Scotland had ever gone to war with each other. If they had, it had probably been because they couldn't agree on which clan had the uglier tartan. He fingered the MacFarlane plaid in his coat pocket and laughed. Once those two clans finished with each other, the MacFarlanes would have come along and stole all their cattle.

"Something amusing, Captain?" Bridget asked him. She was standing in the doorway of his room, and he flinched.

"Uh…no. Not really."

A slight smile played at her lips. "Tartanitis?"

"Yeah. Something like that." He went to the French doors leading out onto the veranda – back home, they were called galleries, he recalled – and stepped outside.

"I thought about giving you one of the rooms in the back, but thought you might like a view of the sunset, and the front garden."

"Right. It's a beautiful place. Your family must be very proud to own it." He leaned against the railing and looked at her, hands stuffed in his pockets, to keep himself from touching her.

"Well, it must be pride, because it costs a bit of tin to run it. Thus the garden tours and the spring pilgrimages, the Dogwood Festival, and so forth. Some other old estates around here got bought up by the Hare Krishnas and Mama would never have stood for such a thing, so when her cousin started making noise about selling out too, she threw a fit and Daddy bought it, lock stock and barrel."

"Yeah. The Murdocks of Montgomery, Alabama had a sort of plantation-like thing, back before the War, but the Yankees burned the house to the ground. They stole all the cattle and horses and any other damned thing they could get their filthy hands on, and the family moved to Texas when the war ended. Otherwise, they'd've starved to death."

"Misfortune moves men better'n U-Hauls, my grandfather often said," she nodded. "Not that we're bitter."

"No," he smiled. "Of course not. But my college roommate at UT…he was a Yankee, from New Hampshire. When our history professor asked him to give some kind of brief description of General Sherman, he started to say he was a great general of the Civil War, and I piped up and said, 'He was an arsonist'."

She giggled. "Well, I remember the boys always fighting over who would get to play General Lee and Stonewall Jackson, when they held war games out here," she nodded. "They never fought over playing some clodhopper from Maine."

Murdock laughed out loud, and slowly sobered as he remembered the real war he'd been through, and how it had affected him. How it had affected everyone who had been there. Even Face woke up screaming sometimes, from terrible nightmares, but those were rare and usually triggered by something unpleasant occurring the day before, like an explosion or a rough fight or sometimes just a ham sandwich. He suspected that survivors of the Civil War had been just the same – just as traumatized, just as weary of the whole notion of war. But peace wasn't just an absence of war - it was being so strong that your enemies are afraid to take you on and would rather negotiate.

He doubted anybody would ever be that afraid of him.

* * *

The day didn't get much better for Murdock. After Bridget left to go 'help' Face get situated in the Blue Room, Murdock was roped into going for a walk around the plantation. He didn't feel too good when he accidentally stumbled across a fire ant bed and ended up with several nasty bites on his ankles. They piled into a little dinghy and sailed across the pond, with Face rowing. Murdock watched as Face attempted – not with a great deal of success – to recite something from Tennyson's 'The Lady of Shalott', but clearly had no inkling of what the poem even meant and came across as practically smarmy.

_Lying, robed in snowy white  
That loosely flew to left and right -  
The leaves upon her falling light -  
Thro' the noises of the night,  
She floated down to Camelot:  
And as the boat-head wound along  
The willowy hills and fields among,  
They heard her singing her last song,  
The Lady of Shalott._

"Er…Faceman, that's probably not the _best_ poem to recite…on a pond. When you just dropped the _oar_."

"What?" Face looked horrified when he realized that he had, indeed, dropped one of the oars into the water. He watched helplessly as it floated away. "What's the poem about, anyway?"

"Well, we can paddle in circles," Murdock shrugged, leaning back on the bow of the little boat. "It's about the Kennedy Administration, I think. Interesting that they'd adopt that whole ridiculous story as their own, eh? I'll tell you what, Mordred had a _point_. Wanna go swimming and get the damned oar?"

"This is a very expensive shirt!" Face said, horrified. He struggled to regain control of his temper, however, and smiled at Bridget, who was biting her lip to keep from laughing. Murdock rolled his eyes, pulled off his bomber jacket and threw off his cap - no use pretending his hairline _wasn't_ receding. He took off his shoes, muttered something about nitwits and Armani and dove into the water.

Face and Bridget looked at each other as the dinghy began to gently spin in the water. Murdock soon reappeared with the straying oar and 'accidentally' bonked Face on the head with it. "Oops. Sorry." He didn't bother to climb back in. Instead, he swam back to shore, clambered out, checked himself for leeches and after making sure there were no black fire ant hills anywhere, sat down and dried in the sun while they paddled around the pond some more. After a few minutes, he got bored, the wind shifted and clouds covered the sun. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

* * *

"I did. I really did. I honestly thought that my bosom could make _music_," Bridget said with a laugh. She put down another card and Face shook his head, amazed.

"Well, I've yet to meet a sixteen-year old who didn't have _some_ ego problems."

"Well…still…" She shook her head, still appalled at how stupid she'd been back then. "Where is he?"

"Outside." Face glanced at the French doors, but it was dark outside now and they hadn't heard from or seen Murdock in the past two hours. He had gone downstairs for a while, ostensibly to watch television, but when Face and Bridget slipped into her bedroom, they heard the TV switch off, right in the middle of the theme to 'Peter Gunn'. "Probably assaulting a fichus at this point."

Feeling as giddy and conspiratorial as teenagers, Face and Bridget sat at a table in her bedroom and played two-handed solitaire, poker, and any other game they could think of, including Go-Fish, which Face told her was Murdock's favorite.

"There is so much of the _kid_ in him," she said, putting down another card and watching Face's right eyelid dip just a little. He was bluffing. Didn't he know he did that? She had stopped calling him Templeton today, realizing that he did indeed have a very interesting face. Not her type, though. She preferred high cheekbones – obviously a dash of Cherokee in his ancestry – and brown eyes that snapped with intelligence and humor. As much as she really liked Face, he was Ken. As in Barbie's boyfriend Ken. Almost too perfect, but obviously with his own set of troubles that she hoped he would seek help for one day, for his own good.

"Yeah. He's always been that way. Even before…"

"Before what?"

"Before Anna."

Bridget took a deep breath. "And when was that little bombshell going to drop?"

"Well…Anna was _serious_, for Murdock. But she was just as much a kid as him. He was probably twenty, and she was eighteen, a nurse-trainee, just in country in Nam. She was from north Florida, had a really strong accent that everybody made fun of, but he didn't, because I guess they spoke the same language. They started seeing each other not too long after he joined us and…well, I think things got pretty hot and heavy 'tween 'em, and…" Face sighed, wishing Murdock had been the one to tell Bridget about this. "I think he was ready to marry her. I'm not sure if he was totally in love with her, but he was serious about her just the same. One and only, always and forever…all that, he said, and I think he meant it. Murdock was never the love'em and leave'em type, anyway. But there was a sniper attack one night and…"

"She was killed." She put all her cards down then, unable to continue. _Eighteen years old_.

"Yeah." Face had no way to soften the story. "Murdock was _off_ before, but he started getting really…manic after her death. And you saw the medical records back at the VA, didn't you?" Off her nod, he went on. "Captured by the VC, three months in a POW camp…we were there, too, y'know. We were all captured after his chopper was shot down. He saved our lives, of course. Saved us by managing to land that flaming thing without any of us being seriously injured, though the headache I had was no picnic, and B.A.'s been afraid to fly ever since – it _was_ a hard landing. We didn't even know about Murdock's past then. He was worse after we escaped. Far worse. But they did more to him, and that's for him to talk about, not me, because he never has _told_ me. And then we did that job in Hanoi and by then he was _horrible_. Couldn't sleep, wouldn't sleep. Wouldn't eat, and when he did, he'd lose it all minutes later. But when he's at the controls, it's like chains fall off him, y'know? Like he can really fly – get away from those demons and just be…okay. Hannibal still insisted Murdock fly us in, and he flew us right out, roaring like a dragon, no fear, just raw energy and balls of steel." Face managed to fight his own tears. "He's my best friend, Bridg'. I wouldn't trust him to anybody else."

"Aren't you ever afraid for him? Out here in the world?"

"No. He's so much better. You helped him far more than you think. He's been down a lot lately, but after all those years in that VA, removed from _life_, it was bound to be rough. But he's on his way back up, I think. He just needs a little push. Some motivation to move on."

"Yeah. I'm just not so sure of myself now." Bridget rubbed her temples. "We talked last night."

Face raised his eyebrows, the game forgotten. "That wasn't part of the plan. But how did it go?"

"I lost my patience with him. I called him a fake."

Face nodded. "He has been faking, for years. Maybe not all fifteen years, but he has been faking for most of them. He was afraid to step outside on an official basis. But he's not afraid any more. Well…maybe a little. But…" He grinned at her. "Do I hear something out in the trees?"

* * *

Murdock finally located a tree that looked like it might serve as a proper ladder. He clambered up its trunk and negotiated gingerly until he was able to peer over the railings of the veranda into the doors of Bridget's rooms – or what little he could see in there. Lace curtains blocked his view fairly well, but he could see Face and Bridget in there, the lights low, and they were sitting on a pair of cushions in front of a blazing fire, holding glasses of champagne. Or maybe they were glasses of orange juice, for all he knew. But either way, Face plus beautiful woman to the power of champagne added to lit fireplace equaled…he didn't want to think about what that equaled now. Or would equal.

The breeze was getting a little too strong, and he smelled rain coming with a norther. He tried to shift to another, sturdier-looking branch, but the one he was on kept moving from side to side, apparently not as reliable as he had originally thought. He heard cracking, a clap of thunder, and let out of a yelp of fright as he fell, and a yowl of pain when he landed.

* * *

"What was that?" Bridget gasped, jumping up off the cushion and rushing to the French doors. Face was immediately at her side, stopping her from stepping out there.

"That was Murdock falling _out_ of the tree."

They listened and soon heard muttering from down below, a few colorful curses – in English - and another painful yelping sound.

Face smiled. "Rosebushes."

* * *

"Damn…thorns…who the hell plants rose bushes in such a place?" he fumed, staggering out of the bed and back onto the brick pathway, dabbing gingerly at scratches on his hands and face. His right leg hurt a bit, and his noggin was still ringing a bit, but all else seemed fine. But the hair on the back of his neck rose when he heard growling behind him. He turned around slowly and encountered two Doberman pinschers watching him. "Nice doggies. I'm sure the blood on your lips is _purely_ coincidental."

The dogs started stalking him, their expressions intent, and Murdock began moving fast but backwards across the lawn. The dogs were in full cry by the time he turned and started running for his life. "Wow…this is just like Uncle Jimmy's, when he'd start chasing us around the room with his dentures…gerroff me, ya damned cur!…until the mood got ugly and we'd all have to _run for our lives_!" He forced himself into high gear and pretended he was in his teens, rather than on the unhappy side of forty, injured, and not really at his best any more.

* * *

"Dogs." Face finally did step out onto the veranda and caught a glimpse of Murdock's bomber jacket and Converse hightops booking it across the manicured lawn, two dogs at his heels. Bridget had assured him that the two dogs were more likely to lick Murdock to death than harm him, but they did _look_ menacing.

"Oh my goodness," Bridget whispered. "I can't believe you talked me into that."

"All the doors are locked, right?"

Bridget nodded. "But that's kind of cruel, isn't it? It's gonna rain!"

Face remembered a particularly rainy night in Monte Carlo, and only grinned. "He'll be _fine_."


	15. Chapter 15

**Title**: Steam

**Chapter**: 15

**Rating**: K+

**Author**: AlyshebaFan

**Note**: I don't write love scenes. I much prefer imagination over full disclosure. And this might not be the ending everybody wanted, but I rather want to wrap this up 'cause I've got other ideas bubbling for a fic based on the movie-version Murdock, so keep an eye out over there, though I make no promises at this point.

* * *

Bridget was awakened by someone pounding on her French doors. She sat up, clinging the blanket to her chest, and took a deep breath. She knew who was out there. It was just a matter of keeping matters under control, and from the way he was thrashing the door and shouting, that might prove difficult.

Finally, after a few deep breaths and a mental pep talk, she padded across the floor and unlatched the doors. Murdock burst into the room, wild-eyed and soaking wet. "Where is he?" he growled, and went straight to the bed, pulling the blankets back to only find her violet scent and her pillows. He turned back to her, dripping water everywhere. Steam was rising off his shoulders, and considering his state of mind, out of his ears as well. She noted that at least his prized bomber jacket was none the worse for wear, but he could very easily catch cold if he didn't dry off and sit down for a while.

"Where is who?"

"You know who I'm talking about!" He rounded on her, ready to start shouting, then seemed to forget that idea when he saw Peck's expensive cufflinks on the table by the window. He snatched them up and turned back to her, furious, holding out the evidence with a triumphant cry. "He's hiding in here, isn't he?"

"Why would who be hiding in here?" Bridget asked him innocently.

"Right! It's not like he's never hid before, except from the odd husband or heavily-armed boyfriend! Very clever, but you're a lousy actress!" Murdock dropped to his hands and knees and peered under the four-poster bed. Nothing. With a grunt of frustration, he scrambled back to his feet and opened her closet door. A silk body slip, hanging from a hook on the inside of the door, distracted him by swinging into his face. He gasped, breathing in her scent, before shoving it away and pushing hanging clothes apart and searching inside. Again, nothing. He dashed into the bathroom, leaving wet footprints on the floor. "All right, Facey. Where are you?" he yelled. "Come out! Right now! Or I swear I'll get the electric razor and cut off all those golden locks and what'll you be? Bald-Facey, that's what!"

"Why are you looking for Lieutenant Peck?" she asked him, following him into the tiled bathroom.

"Because he was in here last night!" Murdock yelled at her. He yelped at the sight of himself in the mirror and made a frantic attempt to hand-brush his wet hair back. He had lost his cap out there somewhere, in between the fire ants and the lick-happy dogs. Twenty minutes under those two Dobermans had cured him of _any_ desire to ever own a dog again. Not even an invisible one.

"How did you know he was in here?" she asked him gently.

"Because I was sp-…" A flash of clarity hit him and he whirled back to look at her. She was wearing her dressing gown, her hair down around her shoulders, looking so lovely and sweet and soft that he seemed to forget what he was about to say. He sputtered for a moment before finally grinding to a helpless halt, casting about for something coherent or at least vaguely rational to say.

"You were what?" she asked him. She sat down in a lyre-backed chair and crossed her knees. When he finally looked at her again, he took a wobbly step back, on the leg he had landed on when he'd fallen out of the tree. Her legs had the same effect on him as ever, but when she folded her arms, that emphasized her breasts a little _too_ well and he swallowed, looking away again and pretending to find great interest in a painting of a ship.

"I was…uh…I…I…"

"Oh, dear, you weren't locked outside last night, were you? It rained pretty hard."

He seemed to snap back to attention then, and his eyes started blazing with righteous anger again. "All the doors were locked, and then Cujo's drooling nephews attacked me, and it started _pouring_. I spent the night on the back porch, and then I _swear_ somebody dumped a bucket of water on me at some point…whoever did that is gonna _pay_!" His voice rose to a shout again as he looked around the room, as if expecting Face to suddenly materialize in the corner.

Bridget dragged her teeth over her lower lip, and his expression softened. He took a step toward her, but she didn't flinch. There was nothing to fear. Right now, she only had to be patient. _Reel him in, _Face had told her.

"But really, Captain, how did you know that Lieutenant Peck was in here last night?"

"I…uh…well, I'm…" He raised shoulders up to his ears and gestured frantically, at a loss.

"Really, Captain, all this shouting and ranting and _stammering_ is tiresome. Since you've managed to get back inside now, you should go on to your room and take a nice shower. Calm down a bit."

"Where is he?" he shouted at her again, his control slipping.

Bridget sighed and shook her head. "If I recall, he's in his bedroom, though with all this _disgraceful_ shouting and blustering about, you've probably awakened the poor man. He didn't get a lot of sleep last night, you know." She gave him a gamine little smile and Murdock's lips pursed, and he took a step toward her. When she leaned back and yawned and stretched like a cat, his need to kill Templeton Peck in some elaborate and imaginative way was forgotten. He could see just inside the top of her nightgown. There was a tiny mole on the inner curve of her right breast. He stared at it for several tense seconds, then took another tentative step toward her.

"Bridget…"

"Yes, Captain?" she asked him softly, leaning forward a little.

"I…I really need to…to…tell you…"

Bridget's door opened just then, and Face stepped in, fully dressed and smelling of his expensive cologne. When he saw Murdock he grinned. "Hey, buddy. Why are you all we-oof!"

Murdock's fist made contact with Face's jaw, and the conman thumped roughly against the heavy oak door, but he didn't go all the way down. Instead, he rushed forward and tackled Murdock amidships, sending the soaking pilot sprawling onto the hardwood floor. Bridget rolled her eyes, remembering her mother, in the midst of a similar brawl between two men fighting over a foul-tempered aunt, saying 'Come on, Charlotte, this may be the only time you'll ever get two men to fight over you. Why would you want them to stop?' She wisely moved out of her chair, though, when the grappling men got a little too close. She finally got up on the bed and sat there, Indian-style, watching the festivities with a combination of dismay and amusement.

Face and Murdock had had their fair share of scraps over the years. Disagreements had sometimes led to fistfights and shouting matches, but Face knew this one was for keeps, so far as Murdock was concerned. He had been told by Bridget to make Murdock as irrational as possible, and so he goaded Murdock whenever he could, even as he received blows from the enraged pilot. Or at least whenever he was able to wrench Murdock's hands from around his neck and say something he hoped sounded smart ass-ish, instead of just wheezy, and he even got in a purple nurple for good measure, which made Murdock yowl with pain and momentarily lose his grip.

Face had forgotten how strong Murdock could be when really riled, and before he knew it, he was pinned to the floor and Murdock looked as though he was about to begin banging his head into the hardwood. What a great way to die, Face thought. In a huge antebellum mansion in Georgia, with James Monroe just down the hall, looking as though he needed some hot oatmeal. Quite a headline. 'Conman Comes a Cropper in Land of Cotton'. No, that didn't sound right…

"Captain, I think that's quite enough. Stop it."

Bridget's hand was on Murdock's shoulder, and she gently pulled him away. He tipped back and sat down on the floor, wincing and flexing his aching hands.

Face slowly got to his feet, using a chair for help, and stood studying his friend, his expression serious. "Just tell her, Murdock. Tell her everything."

Murdock looked down at his reddened palms, and finally allowed a wobbly Face to help him to his feet. The two men regarded each other silently, until finally Face broke the tension with a grin. "I forgot you were so strong."

"Yeah, but you still kick like a mule and bite like a crocodile," Murdock muttered. "That was some tackle!" He rubbed his stinging nipple. "And _that_ was a dirty move!"

"Yeah. B.A. taught me that one. Helps a lot!"

"Aye. My ribs are still rattling."

Face snickered. "He also taught you that sucker-punch. Very nice upper cut, too."

"Excuse me, but am I hearing what I think I'm hearing?" Bridget cut in. "The two of your are comparing _fighting skills_?"

"Well, _yeah_," Face said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Like we're gonna hug and bake each other cookies? Nooo way." He and Murdock looked at each and both started huffed, shaking their heads. "Girls!" they said in unison.

Bridget shook her head. "I am going to go sit on the veranda. And drink my coffee. And rethink my life," she informed the two men, annoyed. "If _one_ of you wishes to join me, you may do so." With that, she turned and walked out the French doors and sat down on one of the wicker rocking chairs with a huff. Face grinned at Murdock.

"Go git 'er, son," he said, punching Murdock in the shoulder.

"I don't get it…wait a minute…" Murdock shook his head. "Was this all…this was all just a _con_?"

"Well, yeah! Like I'd steal your woman."

"Faceman, you would steal Mussolini's woman, if she appealed to you. I really should kill you now," Murdock muttered. "All this subterfuge…but…aw, hell, I swear, I was on the verge of a complete mental collapse. And since I've been there before, I'd'a thought you'd be a little more _sympathetic_."

"I was. That's why I did all this…with some help from the others, of course. I had to make sure you were really gonna fight for her. And besides…you actually think she was interested in _me_? Please. She's not my type, either. She likes tall pilots who speak dozens of languages and can solve a _New York Times_ crossword puzzle in ten minutes."

"Hm. I really think it's these caps," he said, grinning and running a finger along his upper teeth. "Ever since I got these things fixed, I've been havin' to beat the ladies off, y'know."

"Yeah, yeah…whatever." Off Murdock's raised eyebrow, he shrugged, but his expression became serious. "She's the one, Murdock. Go for it. Meanwhile, I am going to catch a flight back to Langley."

"Uh…wait a minute…you're leaving?" Murdock asked, a wave of anxiety hitting him again.

"I think you two are gonna need some time alone," Face said with a wink and a grin. "Listen. Just…talk to her. You've got the lines down, man. Ever since you got out of the VA, you're so much more confident in yourself when it comes to women, and all you needed was a little push to really get it right. Remember that KGB woman…Olga something or other? You had her eating out of your palm. I was sittin' there listenin' to you deliver those lines, and I was thinkin', 'My God, I could never pull that off', but you did – and Hannibal actually pointed out that you seem to know some things that I don't know, and as hard as this is to admit, he's right. Either way, this is _Bridget_, with whom you are crazy in love. So go get her!"

"Lines, schmines. What about…well…er…" He scratched the back of his neck, indicating his unease.

"Yeah. A trip to the pharmacy might have helped, but I think I have a couple…" Face dug in his pockets, but Murdock shushed him.

"Not that, you twit. I'm talkin' about…you know…tellin' her everything. All the _stuff_, and the…you know…the purple wobblies and the nightmares and…and…Nam. And why I was in the VA to begin with, and how I got out, and all the other stuff that even happened before Nam and the CIA and…" He shrugged helplessly. "I tell her all that, she'll bolt for the hills, like anybody else with a shred of good sense."

"Only trouble with that scenario, Murdock, is that you haven't told her yet, and when you do, the ball will indeed be in her court. But there's one other little piece of info that _might_ mitigate matters – she's as crazy in love with you are as you are with her."

"No she's not," Murdock said, shaking his head.

"Ask her about that, not me!" Face said, irritated. "Let her tell you. Just get out there and talk to her!" He pulled Murdock's cap out of his pocket and shoved it onto the pilot's head. "Put on your big-boy shorts and go out there!" He turned Murdock around and gave him a shove toward the French doors.

* * *

Bridget tensed when she heard the door open. She didn't glance up – just waited. She didn't even turn her head when he sat down in the chair beside her. He poured himself a cup of coffee and take a sip, wincing at the jolt of heat and caffeine. She heard him draw his breath in, very slowly.

"Well. The past the two days' worth of aggravation were just leadin' to this, I guess."

"I suppose." She took a sip of coffee and still didn't look at him.

"I guess I could have told you all about…_everything_ back at the VA, but that was different. I was just a patient."

She looked at him at last. He had a bruise forming on his right cheek, but looked otherwise unscathed by his fistfight with Face. "Just a patient?"

"I don't trust people. And whenever I talk to a therapist, I figure that if I tell 'em everything, they'll _really_ lock me up for good."

Bridget turned to face him. "You thought I would do that?"

"I dunno. I probably did, at first. Like I said, I don't trust people, but then you ended up with the upper hand and I was…hooked. Bridget, I…I've been havin' problems long before Nam. Just…a kind of wildness. A wantin' to get away, y'know? I needed space – it started with claustrophobia, when I was pretty young, and then it was other stuff. I'd hear voices sometimes, and see things that weren't there. I scared the hell out my CO one day, askin' him if he could see a man in the corner of the office, wearin' a long trenchcoat and a hat. The look on his face – I was only half jokin' about that, Bridget. It's like…like learnin' to walk properly, y'know? You walk, you stroll, you amble, you mosey…you sashay, if you're scamming a hair stylist with Face. That kinda thing. You learn how to play a role. I wasn't too good at the roles, back then, even after acting classes at UT, but I learned and after a while, I could play the part perfectly, but I still had the _problems. _They never went away. Sometimes, I really do see that man in the trenchcoat, and he don't look too friendly, let me tell ya."

"So you do have…delusions? Hallucinations?"

"Yeah. Overactive imagination, overactive mind. I didn't need drugs in Nam, Bridget. My whole friggin' mind was on drugs already. They did IQ tests on me when I was about twelve…the guy nearly passed out when he saw the score. He called MENSA. I didn't wanna be in _MENSA_. Bunch'a eggheads postulatin' about all kinds a'junk that meant nothin' to nobody but them. Blithering on endlessly, thinking education equals intelligence." He took another sip of his coffee. "Believe me, honey, it's entirely possible to educated far beyond your intelligence. I didn't have any trouble learning stuff. So I skipped grades and got out when I was fifteen, like I told you, and went to college. Then I kinda…_fibbed_ about my age so I could fly with the Thunderbirds."

She made quick calculations and nodded. "So you joined the Army at…sixteen?"

"No, that was actually later. I was in the Thunderbirds for a couple summers, then…er…" He sat back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. "One day, some guys in black suits came in and asked me if I'd like to work for the CIA."

She raised her eyebrows, and was relieved when she saw his smile. A familiar smile that reached his eyes, and it was obvious that he found the story as outlandish as she did, except that it was so obviously true.

"Yeah, wild, huh? But I can fly anything. _Anything_. Just look at the instrument panel and away I'd go. No problems. So they offered me adventure and action and blah-dee-blah, so off I went. First to China, then Laos, the Philippines…I was in Cambodia when my grandmother died. I'll never forgive myself for not bein' there, and those bastards wouldn't even let me go back for her funeral. She raised me, accepted me…and I couldn't even say goodbye. I made sure she got a nice gravestone, though, and lots of flowers at the funeral – she liked flowers. Begonias in particular."

She offered no empty platitudes. She just watched him.

"It was kinda like bein' another person, y'know? I was just gettin' good at the play-acting. But I had a bad crash and the VC caught me…beat me all to hell, y'know, and back through twice over. It was the day they buried her, too – so I guess I thought I deserved it. A bit of advice, by the way – don't get shot down over a jungle, and don't involved in land wars in Asia. But I escaped and got back to Saigon and recovered pretty well…physically, anyway…and next thing I know, I'm tossed into the Army. Full rank – Captain H.M. Murdock, Flyin' Tigers, smell o' napalm in the morning, and earned my wings the hard way. No problem there. I was flyin' Hueys. Evacs, mainly. Then I was recruited by Colonel Smith – the A-Team. I was a real troublemaker by then – getting into fights, pullin' all kinds of stunts, tiltin' at windmills, rebelling against everything and nothing. All of nineteen years old and I'd seen half the world by then, and more than I needed to see as it was, or wanted to, really. _The more of the world I see, the less I am satisfied with it_."

"Austen," Bridget smiled. "And the languages?" she asked him, curious.

He snickered. "Languages are easy, baby. Simple. The CIA threw me into some classes, right off the bat. First it was Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, then Japanese, Tagalog…then it was anything else I could get my hands on. I had French in a _week_. German takes longer, as the words breed at night to form new, longer words, but I got that pretty easy anyway – very gender specific language, that. Italian, Spanish I already spoke pretty well as it was…the list goes on. My Russian's kinda iffy, though. I even learned Latin, for the fun of it. Esperanto. Pig Latin. An-cay oo-ya e-say azy-cray?"

"You are not crazy," she said softly.

"Wanna bet?" He shook his head. "I met Anna in Saigon. She was eighteen, right out of high school. A nurse trainee. She wanted to see the world, and I was hooked the minute I met her. She _accepted _me. It was like Emma reincarnated, y'know? Only…well, you know. That doesn't sound…weird, does it?"

"No."

"Good. Because it didn't seem weird, to me. We just connected. She spoke my language. We had fun together – we were both just kids, anyway. But I was gonna marry her."

Bridget nodded and braced herself for the terrible ending to the story.

"I asked her, and she said yes, and God, I was on top of the world. Lookin' back, I'm not really sure I was _in_ love with her, but I did love her. I probably would have really ended up in love with her anyway, but either way, I was gonna marry her. We were about two weeks away from me finally getting some time and we were gonna go stateside, get married in Florida, with her family, and my grandfather was still alive, too, but he was in a nursing home – couldn't live on the farm without Emma, couldn't really live at all, and didn't for much longer." He drew in his breath slowly. "She was pregnant."

He didn't look at her with any expression indicating a desire for pity. The statement was given without any degree of drama. Just a point of fact. But the sorrow was still there.

Bridget's eyes welled with tears and her hand sought his. Their fingers intertwined, and he nodded. "Sniper. A sniper got her. We're walkin' back through camp and…she had told me it about four days earlier, after I had done that hare-brained 'let's fly this chopper upside down' stunt, which I do_ not _recommend, by the way. I enjoyed it immensely, but I don't think my passengers really did. Anyhow, I hadn't even told anybody about the baby. Not even Face or Hannibal. If it had been a girl, I'd've named her Emma. A boy, and it'd've been Alexander – after my grandfather."

For a long time, they were both silent. Murdock had no more tears to shed over the loss of his fiancée and child. There was nothing to be said. Finally, he let go of Bridget's hand and sat back in the chair.

"I suppose I would have checked with Anna about that, but her father's name was Wilbur. I mean, really…Wilbur Murdock? Sounds like a type of cheese. And her mother's name was Leta. Leta Murdock just sounds…eh… like a bacteria. The flesh-eating Letamurdock virus."

Bridget was so unprepared for his humor that she giggled through her tears. He smiled at her, and shrugged.

"We had a bad crash, the team and I, a few months later. Or shouldn't I say, rough landing? Shot down, really – whole back end of the damned Huey on fire, and me _scramblin'_, just to keep us upright and everybody alive. B.A. never will be the same, lemme tell ya. But by God, we were all alive, and I fully give God the credit for that one, 'cause I was just holdin' on and prayin'. Makin' all kinds of elaborate promises. Ever thought about what you'd do if you had a week to live? Last cigar. Last bottle of wine. Last novel. Well…novella. Last roll in the hay. Lost of lasts were flashin' through my head, for the first time ever, and I was seein' all that could have been and wouldn't ever be, and I think I lost it before we even hit the ground. And then the VC got us all, and…"

She drew in her breath, very slowly. He finally looked at her. "If I talk about all that, Bridget, I'll have trouble sleepin' for months. They aren't very nice people, the VC. They were cold-blooded killers, and they wanted to break me. See, they remembered _me_, 'cause I escaped from 'em first time 'round. So I got the homecomin' special, so to speak. I didn't tell Hannibal or Face or B.A. about it. Most of the time, I was too zorked out to speak clearly. Beatings and starvation'll do that to you. There was a cook who kept us alive as best he could. I don't remember escapin', really. I just remember wakin' up in a hospital in Tokyo, screamin' and beggin', and people were holdin' me down, givin' me morphine and the doctors were sayin' I had PTSD up the wazoo, and that the physical damage wasn't as bad as the mental, and at the time they weren't even sure if I'd walk again. But I was back on my feet in two weeks, and Hannibal wanted me to fly 'em to Hanoi and back, so I did." He shrugged. "A few weeks later, we're all stateside, and I was seein' far worse things than guys in trenchcoats. I was seein' monsters. I was hearin' voices all over the place. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. I remember seein' Face cryin', 'cause he knew I wasn't right, or not quite right enough. I was always sort of…okay, until then. And so while they were gettin' ready for the trial, they told me that I really shouldn't testify, that I could never have handled the trial, that I was too fragile."

Bridget watched his face carefully. The sorrow in his eyes, and the guilt. "They talked me into goin' to the VA, and when the psychiatrists came in and asked me questions, hell, it wad'n really that hard to convince 'em that I was nuts. I damn' sure felt nuts by then. But I was so miserable there, at first. I was a complete wreck. Isolation at first, 'cause at the time, I was dangerous. I was seein' so many things, and hearin' so many things…but after a while, I started calmin' down some. I regressed to childhood, according to one of the shrinks. Retreated into a cocoon of safety, for my own preservation. And how. Games and toys and conversations with trees…anything, to keep it all at bay, I guess." He rubbed his hands against his thighs, remembering. "But after a while, the voices stopped. The shadows stopped movin' around. And it wasn't long before Face came along and got me out – I finally had somethin' to do, you know? My mind was still far too active. Still is. But I had something to think about besides just how bored I was, and how much I wanted out. And I was allowed to fly again."

She smiled. For better or for worse, the A-Team had given Murdock his freedom. Hadn't Face said that when he was flying, it was as if chains fell off him and he was okay?

"But the thing is, I forget sometimes whether I'm crazy or if I'm just pretending. I can certainly pull off the act if I have to – the team gets caught and they want me to testify? Army manuals." He grinned at her, and Bridget smiled back. "I can just sit there and take all tests and look 'em right in the eye and trick 'em. They had specialists come in to talk to me – flew in guys from Vienna, for God's sake. Freudians and Jungians and anything else you can think of, and none of 'em could really see through me. Well…you did. You saw right through it, didn't you?"

"I like to flatter myself a little about that," she said, and blushed. "But I was mainly just attracted to you."

His eyebrows shot up and he grinned. "Really? You thought I was…like…totally cool and stuff?" He winked at her, waggling his head a little, and she giggled.

"I thought you were…interesting," she said, lifting her chin and pretending to be indignant. "Fascinating, actually. But you were my patient. I had to maintain a proper distance. But I sensed right off that it was a game for you, in many cases. I knew there were problems – I had read the records, Captain. I saw them all, from way back to your escape from the POW camp, and the condition you were in at Tokyo. That wasn't a game."

"No. No games there." He nodded. "Listen, I'm gonna have problems for the rest of my life. I'm never gonna be _normal_, okay?"

"What's your definition of normal?" she asked him seriously.

He cast about for a moment, then shrugged. "I don't know. But I suppose it would not involve invisible dogs, or thinking I'm Frank Sinatra. I ended up on a stage, Bridget. Granted, the crowd did appear to appreciate my abilities, until the real Sinatra came out and I was dragged away. You know all those goons he has around him? The Mafia types? They're _very_ serious fellows, let me tell ya. But…but…if…uh…you're willing to cope with that and just gimme a chance…"

"On one condition."

Murdock braced himself and looked her in the eye.

"What is your real name?"

* * *

The doctors at the hospital in Washington had sent Face home after almost a weeks' worth of time in recovery, but he was resigned to being confined to bed or the couch for several more days. He had been delighted when Murdock called from Georgia and informed him that things were going 'very well' down there. Beyond that, the pilot had been less than forthcoming about just how well things were between him and Bridget. When he'd returned and gone back to work at the Italian restaurant, Face had been worried that things _hadn't_ worked out. Even worse, until the shooting, Murdock hadn't said a word about it. Just kept working at the restaurant, and flying the team wherever they needed to go, doing his part with his usual competence, and otherwise keeping to himself.

It was driving Face crazy, frankly. He was starting to consider getting Frankie or B.A. to tap Murdock's phone, so they could find out if he was calling Bridget. And after three days of sitting around doing nothing at the house, the conman was about to climb the walls with a combination of curiosity and cabin fever.

He was sitting up on the couch, eating tomato soup and mumbling to nobody because there were no Ritz crackers to go with it, when Murdock strolled into the house, hands in his pockets. He grinned at Face and came around to sit in the Barcalounger. "Hey. How ya doin'?"

"I'm good enough, but won't be shooting hoops any time soon," Face answered. He eyed Murdock. The few times he'd had a chance to talk to his friend about the state of affairs in Georgia, Murdock had said things were 'fine' and changed the subject, or someone had started shooting, or there was an explosion. Par for the course, but he wasn't about to let Murdock evade the question this time. "Are you ever going to tell me about how things went…or are going…in Georgia?"

"Well…" Murdock pulled the handle on the Barclalounger and stretched out, stacking his hands behind his head and relaxed. "I've quit at the restaurant."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Face asked him, frustrated.

"I'm thinkin' about startin' my own business. A flight school, after we're finally on retirement from the General Hunt Stockwell Employment Agency."

"A flight school? Don't you need planes for that? Where would you get a plane?"

"I have two, actually. And a chopper." Murdock shrugged.

"Where the hell did you get them?"

"Er…they were just kinda…sitting around, homeless, and needed some TLC and I got a coupla investors and a business partner…or, I hope he'll be willing to be a business partner…and what with me getting married in a few weeks, I'll…"

"Homeless…business…wait a minute…rewind…what did you say?"

"Yeah. I'm getting married."

Face stared at Murdock, stunned, but his surprise soon faded away into pure delight. "You're not kidding? You and Bridget…?"

"No, me and Jane Fonda. Of course me and Bridget," Murdock said, rolling his eyes. "Where'd'ja think I've been goin' these past few weeks? I've been usin' my planes to fly down to Savannah to see her, and…well, things have progressed nicely enough and 'bout a week ago I asked her to marry me and she said yes, and her father is going to invest in the flight school, too – weird, but he actually seems to like me, and her mother thinks I'm only just a step down in character from Robert E Lee himself – and we're…gettin' married. Bridget and I, I mean."

The conman stared at Murdock, unable to keep from grinning. He would have laughed, but the gunshot wound in his stomach was still healing and he wasn't allowed to laugh. "What about her job at the VA?"

"She's gonna move out here, to Virginia. We're gonna live outside Georgetown. I'm lookin' at places – acreage, with stables. I'm gonna get a horse or two. I've always wanted some horses."

"Right. Right. And…uh…your business partner?"

"Well, you see, that's the sticky point. I know you and Hannibal and B.A. want to start a security firm after we're out from under Stockwell's thumb. And you know I'll be glad to help out, but…I want my own life, y'know? Make my own way in the world. I already talked to Hannibal about it. He thinks it's a great idea. I can still fly y'all wherever you need to go, and in the meantime, you'll be makin' a little cash on the side…Hannibal and B.A. are investing a little, too. Even Frankie wants to chip in a little." Murdock grinned. "I may get a little cash out of Stockwell."

Face raised his eyebrows. "How would you do that?"

"Well, see, I have a few telephone numbers…" He pushed the footrest of the Barcalounger down and sat up straight. "What do you say?"

"I say it's a deal. When's the wedding?"

"Two weeks."

"Good God. Kind of a rush, isn't it?"

"Well…" Murdock scratched the back of his neck and his mouth twisted a little. "Remember when you tried to find those particular _items_, just before you left? In your pockets?"

"Eh?" Face thought a moment, then his eyes widened. "Oh! Right!" He struggled to keep from laughing and only barely succeeded.

"Well…er…let's just say that we kinda _have_ to get married, or her father will shoot me. Don't tell him, either! We'll just say the baby a little…eh…premature."

"That fast, huh?" Face cackled with laughter, and winced in pain. "Did you tell her your name?"

"Howland Madison Murdock. That's me. Irony never was my mother's strong point. And if you tell anybody, I'll just have to kill you."

"I promise I won't say a word." Face grinned. "I'd hate to be killed – I wanna go to that wedding. I suspect it'll be a doozy."

"Well, I do need a best man." Murdock stood up, and smiled when he saw Hannibal, B.A. and Frankie coming in the front door. Hannibal grinned when he saw the pilot.

"So I guess you told him?" he asked.

"Yup. Wedding's in two weeks."

"Good, good." Hannibal sat down, with B.A. taking a seat next to him. "How's the bride-to-be?"

Murdock grinned. Last time he'd seen her had been just that morning, when he'd left her warm bed and apologized for waking her so early. She was just starting to feel the effects of morning sickness, and he hadn't minded sitting beside her, holding her hair back, as she had lost her supper. He had carried her back to bed and kissed her goodbye. In her emotional state – hormones ricocheting off the walls at lightning speed – she had burst into tears and told him she was happier than she'd ever been in her life, and to please come back soon. She was preparing to move to Virginia and was flying to California to pack up her house and her canary and would be in Virginia in another week. He missed her already, and could barely wait to see her again.

"She is most excellent, I can assure you."

"So…" Frankie leaned forward. "What happens next? The security firm, of course, and Murdock's got the flight school…we're all stickin' together?"

"Yep." Murdock nodded. "Frankly, I would rather be with you guys than the best people in the world!"

"Right!" B.A. nodded, then he realized what Murdock had said. "Wait a minute…hey, what the hell was that supposed to mean, you crazy fool?" he glared at the pilot, who only grinned back while Hannibal and Frankie snickered and Face struggled to keep from laughing.

"I mean, life is going on at its normal speed." He put his cap back on. "Meanwhile, I'm house huntin'. Hey, B.A., wanna come with me?"

B.A. considered it a moment, then stood up. "Yeah, whatever. Gotta make sure you don't do somethin' crazy, like buy the White House."

"Gee, is it for sale?" Murdock asked as they went out the front door.

"Hell, it's been for sale for two hundred years."

Face and Hannibal heard Murdock's laughter, and a few moments later they heard B.A. calling the pilot a crazy fool again, and they looked at each other and grinned.

"Well. I know I probably shouldn't say this, but it's my best line," Hannibal said, lighting another cigar. "But I love it when a plan comes together."

THE END

(If your doorbell rings, it's the Schmaltz Police)


End file.
